


Stoked

by magichandthing



Series: Stoked [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cunnilingus, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Eventual rough stuff, F/M, Gentle Sex, Loving Fucking, Multiple Orgasms, No use of y/n, Oral Fixation, Reader is early 20's and Mando is early 30's, Reader-Insert, Size Difference, Slow Burn, Soft Din Djarin, Vaginal Fingering, soft fucking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:40:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22844956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magichandthing/pseuds/magichandthing
Summary: “What… are you wearing?”His voice was like velvet. Scratchy velvet. You realized that was an impossibility, but who are you to say anything about impossible at this very moment? And oh, hold on, your shirt, how embarrassing-“A… Mandalorian t-shirt?”---------------------------------------In which you are somehow ripped from your home of some small, backwater town, from Earth, and forcefully hurdled through the time-space continuum onto a little, brown planet called Tatooine. And you run into a familiar Mandalorian.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Reader, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV) & Reader, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Reader, The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/You
Series: Stoked [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1642285
Comments: 115
Kudos: 710





	1. Run In

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever fic, and I hope you guys enjoy it. It truly is a self-indulgent piece, as life has been rough for me lately.
> 
> I hope my iteration of Mando is somewhat reminiscent of canon Mando.
> 
> Starts after Mando has his foundling boy. I just didn't know how else to tie in a randomly dropped in Reader with the whole Arvala-7 arc. Thank you for reading!

You know how the old saying goes. 

In a galaxy far, far away...

Existed you, on Earth, living a quiet, peaceful life in a quiet, peaceful town. 

A soft hum left you. The air was crisp, the remnants of winter still apparent on this spring night, the chill seeping into your skin. You risked letting go of the handlebars of your bike and briskly rubbed your arms before taking a quick glance up towards the sky. The gentle clicks of the gears filled the silent night, providing sound effects for the fantasies of space battles and blaster shootouts in your mind, running fervently as you made your slow and familiar journey home beneath the stars.

If you squinted, you could swear they twinkled a little brighter tonight. 

You supposed you’d do anything, really, to get to experience the adventures that those inhabiting that universe had, to be free from the suffocation of your dull, daily routine. You wished you could feel the excitement, the primal urge to survive that persists, to feel what it was like to _truly live_ -

You got a taste for that feeling very, _very_ quickly, as the stars you were gazing up at blurred like you were in hyperspace and oh, _why are your wheels gliding amongst them, haha, oh shit, you were kidding about being bored-_

And there was nothing you could do to brace yourself.

At least you didn’t make a peep.

————

Consciousness seeped slowly back, sliding sluggishly over the folds and crevices of your brain. The sun warmed your back, the heat off the ground below you radiating into your aching skin. You wheezed. Your ribs protested the motion. You snuffed the urge to remain still, turning your head, chasing after oxygen-

And now you also had a lot of sand in your mouth. 

_Who the hell has_ sand _in their yard these days?_

Someone startled at the sound of your haggard breath- you heard feet near your head scuff the ground and another, sharper breath that was not yours- screaming at you in a language you did not recognize. You pull yourself just together enough to sit up, to reassure your Good Samaritan that you were absolutely not dead, no ambulance needed please, you just got kicked off your parents’ insurance and-

The feet were green.

The feet were _green._

Somewhere, dimly, in the back of your mind, you recognized that this green-footed creature said something else to you- but at this point, your brain was lagging. Your eyes followed up the length of this being _(green arms!)_ , mouth stupidly agape and still very much sandy, settling on a very distinct, very reptilian _(green!)_ face.

Remember that pride of not screaming earlier? Take it back. Take it back right now.

You tore yourself from the ground, and began a mad dash to literally _anywhere else_. You rushed past stands and stalls and _holy shit what language is everyone speaking, you’ve never heard it, what is that rotisserie-ing over there, is that a two-legged, walking pig with a fucking gun and-_

You’re back on the floor, because you just ran so hard into a metal wall that a soft chorus of gasps rang out from around you before the bustle of the bar settled into a deafening silence. And you were so disoriented that you didn’t notice that the metal wall also gave a grunt back. You sputtered, brushing sand from your pants, your mouth, _everywhere_ , oblivious to the predicament you had unwittingly found yourself in.

Suddenly, you felt a large hand wrap around the soft fabric of your overpriced t-shirt, lifting you up, the acrid smell of smoke, leather, and something you couldn’t quite put your finger on invading your nose. It was almost effortless, really, the way you moved through the air, like you weren’t anything heavier than a puppy, but your shirt protested with that distinct, awful, tearing-stretching sound cloth makes when it’s reaching its limit. You frowned- it was like, thirty whole dollars and _not_ designed for such abuse.

Even in an unfamiliar land, you threw caution to the wind, you supposed. You opened your mouth to yell at the offender, hands swatting uselessly at the one currently tearing at the delicate threads clothing you. 

Except only a wisp of air left your mouth as your eyes finally landed on the gleaming, metal not-wall you ran into.

_“What… are you wearing?”_

His voice was like velvet. Scratchy velvet. You realized that was an impossibility, but who are you to say anything about _impossible_ at this very moment? And oh, hold on, your shirt, how embarrassing-

“A… _Mandalorian_ t-shirt?”

The hand didn’t leave your shirt. Your wide eyes didn’t leave his helmet. The silence surrounding you didn’t break. A bead of sweat slid down the dip of your spine, brain _finally_ catching up.

You were in Tatooine. Like, _the_ Tatooine. Not some convention’s photoshoot backdrop, not at Disneyland, not at any film set on Earth. _Tatooine._

And the metal not-wall you ran into was _the_ Mandalorian. You know, the one on your shirt.

 _“A Mandalorian… t-shirt.”_ He replied, just as slow as you, as if he were testing the words in his mouth. You were an anomaly to him- to everyone- with your cotton t-shirt, your zip up hoodie, your ripped jeans, your canvas sneakers, so light and airy and unassuming. Your very existence seemed out of place, even stumping the unstump-able, unshakeable Mandalorian. You really wished someone in this damn bar would cough or something, because now even you were aware of the heavy silence.

“Yes?” You hesitantly offered, like it was the most normal fucking thing in the world. “I got it on Amazon.”

Thankfully, that broke the spell that enraptured every single being in the cantina, a soft wave of hushed whispers rolling to fill every uncomfortable, suffocating space the silence did. You relaxed a fraction, despite the hand still grasping your shirt.

Whatever relief the chatter gave you was quickly replaced with the intense anxiety of having a conversation partner who was so painfully incompatible with you. The Mandalorian eyed you like you were a readied weapon, menacing glare of his T-shaped visor boring holes into your very skin. And though the cantina now erupted back with life, your seemingly out-of-place existence now somewhat normal or at least the topic of the day for others, he said nothing. Though he didn’t let you go, either.

God, you wished you had picked a different shirt that morning. Or never have bought the damn thing to begin with. You didn’t even finish the damn second episode, swearing you would continue to watch once you had more free time- which never really happened. 

Though maybe you’d be dead by now if you hadn’t just shocked this man into thinking you were some creepy, crazy, otherworldly stalker.

You squirmed. “So-“

Without warning, he let go. And look, your _cat-like reflexes_ were just slow that day, it seemed, because for the nth time, you found yourself on the floor. You huffed, glaring what you hoped was a scathing look at your Beskar’d gentleman.

He was still staring at you. Or at least his helmet was angled at you.

You picked yourself up, wincing as a twinge shot through your ankle as the adrenaline rush died down, and you leaned against the bar in an incredibly vain effort to seem at least somewhat relaxed about this all.

 _“You aren’t from around here, are you?”_ His helmet angled towards your torso. As level as his voice sounded, you knew he couldn’t shake the shock from seeing his image printed on someone else’s shirt, on someone else’s body, and his unwillingness to move the fuck on from it proved it. Gods, you nearly sputtered out a laugh at the ridiculousness of this whole entire situation, but you stopped yourself as self-preservation deemed you don’t laugh at the literal _killer_ in front of you. These weren’t Earth rules, anymore.

“No.” You opted to reply, simply. “I don’t think I am.”

You squinted as the light briefly bounced off his helmet, straight into your eyes, as he tipped his head to the side. Anxiety rolled inside you, muscles trembling down to your core, and you set your jaw, staring wide-eyed into the deep abyss of his visor.

Whatever he was thinking, you’d never know. Without another word, he strode past you, leaving you melting into the counter in relief. You only had a nanosecond of ease before you stilled in shock; you just ran into the fucking _Mandalorian_ , and oh, fuck, you were stranded still on this damn planet, _no, galaxy,_ with no way out-

_“Follow me.”_

Your neck nearly snapped at how fast your head turned. Your body moved before your brain did- _typical_ \- and you found yourself shuffling after his rapid pace, wondering the exact logistics about how you were here, how this was happening, were you in a coma on Earth and this was some sort of fever dream-

It seemed he was great at cutting off every single one of your trains of thought without even meaning to. He halted suddenly, in the middle of the street, and rounded on you. Instinctively, you took a step back for every single one of his that came towards you, ignoring the burgeoning pain shooting up your leg from your ankle in favor of surviving his rapid onslaught, and you soon found yourself at the end of an empty alley, back against the cantina wall.

Gods, he was _tall._

You couldn’t read his helmet, but you were certain he was going to kill you; he’s finally processed this whole absurd event and you were _just creepy enough_ that you needed to be eliminated and-

_“Wait here.”_

Your head spun. His voice was just soft enough you could barely hear it over the din of the marketplace, just close enough that it lit a bomb wick of goosebumps along your arms. If he was going to kill you, you thought it wouldn’t really be so bad. You whispered a weak “okay” to his retreating _whoosh_ of cape, all business and somehow no drama, hurriedly rubbing your arms. 

Peering curiously around the edge of the wall, you hoped to spy where he could have possibly gone, but quickly became distracted as Tatooine’s _life_ stole his spotlight in your mind. You obeyed his order to stay put, though. 

For a time.

The sun was starting to set. Never again would you get a chance like this, and he was taking forever anyways, and something that smelled really, really good started to waft around the corner, tempting you. Just one more peek couldn’t hurt…

It was bustling, just like the movies, filled with an incredible culture you yearned to know. The green lizard creatures- _Trandoshans, you remembered_ \- no longer struck fear in you. The dual suns beginning their descent beyond the horizon washed the marketplace in a red-purple haze, refracting off the occasional droid with a brilliant, cool flash. The sights and smells intrigued you, the variations of species, of products, of _lifestyle_ was calling you and you took a step forward to go out and explore, until you were yanked back and you let out a shriek of surprise.

A hand quickly clamped over your mouth before any real sound left you. 

_“I told you to wait here.”_ Gods, the soft edge to his gruff voice melted you- _even better than listening to it through your headphones at home_ \- and you sunk a little into his hand even though the smell of danger hanging from his glove triggered every mental alarm, shoulder blades ghosting along his Beskar cuirass. He immediately pulled away the instant your muscles eased, tossing a mess of fabric at you. It hit your shoulder and laid in a tangle heap along it. _“Put that on. You stand out too much.”_

“Sorry.” You mumbled, a twinge of shame bubbling in you. You pulled the cloth from your shoulder, observing the tangle. Was it a wrap? It was soft in your palms. You turned it every which way until you finally figured out how to settle it around your shoulders, drawing the crinkled hood up over your head, its excess pooling down around your waist. You opened your arms and gave a little turn. “Is this better?”

You supposed he was pleased enough with your appearance, because the Mandalorian was moving again, briskly. You scrambled to follow- _how does he move so silently and so fucking_ fast?- your desire to keep close implicit, though your head turned to soak in all the sights in the quickly fading light. If he was frustrated that you nearly lost him, multiple times, he certainly didn’t show it, walking silently, confidently before you, guiding the two of you to a port. You hardly realized where you were, enraptured by the whimsy of the pit droids, until you heard the groan of metal.

Your jaw dropped. It was the _Razor Crest._ In real life, in front of you, fully functional, fully _real_ , and you gasped, hands flying to your mouth. Had you had even a smidge less self-control, you would have squealed, but you settled for watching in awe as the Mandalorian activated the ramp and disappeared into the ship. Maker, this was unreal-after all, it truly was- to be standing in front of a genuine starship, when all you ever knew of space travel involved a very select group of people, incredible intelligence you did not possess, and photos that very well could have been photoshopped.

His hand appeared from beyond the ramp, beckoning you with a solitary finger. Excitement shifted to full blown glee. Without any hesitation, you clambered up, and for the second time that day, you were chest to chest with him in the tight space. Breathing seemed lost on you, body tense as you searched his visor for any sign of ill-will.

He said nothing as he observed you, gingerly taking the wrap between the fingers of one hand and adjusting it so he could see your shirt. Your face turned an equally embarrassing shade of red at the gentle treatment from such a dangerous man, burning straight up your ears and down your neck, igniting a mixture of shame, arousal, and curiosity in you as you basked in the intensity of his gaze. He touched you- er, your _cloak_ \- as if you’d break, though you wondered if he was just being careful- you were an unknown thing, potentially dangerous, after all.

The silence, this time, was less uncomfortable than the first at the bar, though you couldn’t say you were any more relaxed.

A soft gasp escaped you as static escaped his helmet and disrupted the terse quiet. Was that a cough? A sigh? Your brows knitted together as he dropped the cloak again, fingers lingering for a fraction of a second before he pulled away altogether, taking a single step back. That weird staticky sound was back, and you realized it was him clearing his throat when one fist balled where his mouth would be. 

_“Um,”_ he started, and that was it, that broke you, and you broke into a fit of giggles, clutching your cloak where his hand just was. _You_ made the fucking Mandalorian _uncomfortable_. 

_“Why are you laughing?”_ The confusion, the discomfort, the annoyance was near palpable in his tone of voice, and you swore he was _pouting_ under that helmet. His arms crossed, a valiant attempt at intimidation, but you were just too far gone in the absurdity of it all, laughing until tears threatened to spill down your flushed cheeks.

He waited. You gave him credit for that. He waited until you were calmer, staring down at your bouncing shoulders, your unabashed grinning, until they all but faded. Gathering yourself, you stood a little straighter, feeling much better.

“Sorry,” you started, fighting back another giggle. “This is just ridiculous.”

“One second I’m riding my bike home, minding my own damn business-“ You notice a tip of his head at that, but continue. “-and the next, I’m face-down on the ground of a fictional land, being screamed at by a _Trandoshan._ ”

 _“Fictional?”_ He asked, after some time. 

“Fictional, to me. In my world.” You huff. “But like, really, _that’s_ the one thing you picked out from that entire story-“

 _“You’re really not from these lands.”_ The Mandalorian interrupted. _“Yet, you know so much of our world. You say that it’s fictional to you, you own a… t-shirt bearing_ my _image, and-“_

He fell silent, helmet dipping to focus on the ground, hands balling and unballing by his sides. It seemed this was short-circuiting him as much as it did you. At this point, you had accepted that you were either in some coma from the bike-crash and fever dreaming this up, or you were _actually_ here. Either way, it didn’t matter, and you bit back another giggle at hearing him say “t-shirt” again.

“If it makes you feel any better, I don’t know either.” You offered, sighing. His helmet snapped up. “It is what it is and-“

A sharp hiss from behind you startled you both, interrupting the discomfort of the conversation, and you spun around just as he rushed forward. It was too late, though; your eyes widened in surprise as it took in the sight of the creature, emerging from his cot.

“Oh my fucking god.” You whispered, as the Mandalorian scooped him up, shielding him from you. “It’s motherfucking Baby Yoda.”

A heavy sigh buzzed through the vocoder of the Mandalorian’s helmet.

 _“The-”_ He paused. _"The_ what?"

You two were in for a long night.


	2. Wrapped

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader finally gets that ankle taken care of. Also some fun banter and anxiety-fluff. Still no real plot as I just figure out characterization and where I'm going with this, honestly!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! You guys, I'm so thankful for you all. The first chapter got so much positive attention and I love all of you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. I'm so, so glad you guys are enjoying this as much as I am writing it.
> 
> I had some pretty bad anxiety the past few days, and it sort of manifested into this chapter. I hope it's ok. 
> 
> If you'd like to follow me on tumblr, it is magichandthing.tumblr.com :) Thank you again, everyone.
> 
> (BTW, why doesn't the Razor Crest have a door for the freaking vacc-tube?)

_“Oh my fucking god.” You whispered, as the Mandalorian scooped him up, shielding him from you. “It’s motherfucking Baby Yoda.”_

_A heavy sigh buzzed through the vocoder of the Mandalorian’s helmet._

_“The_ what _?”_

* * *

It had to have been _hours_ now. You barely spoke a word to him, and him to you. He hadn’t asked you anything else beyond your name, surprisingly. The Mandalorian had fallen into a contemplative silence after the entrance of Baby Yoda- the _Child,_ he corrected-, though he had decided to allow you to stay, closing the ramp behind you and beckoning you to the cockpit. You, in turn, had decided against mentioning anything without being asked, hadn’t questioned his decision, just obediently followed him into the depths of his ship.

Now, your body ached. Nausea rolled through you like an ocean’s tide, merciless, quick, endless, any previous excitement you had felt about being aboard the _Razor Crest_ beaten dead by fear. You quaked in the seat you were _not_ strapped to, lamenting the lack of seatbelts in this universe, though you were aware no damn _seatbelt_ would save anyone from a starship crash. Every molecule in your body desperately wished to fuse with the atoms of the co-pilot’s seat you were in- desperate for safety and stability you _definitely did not feel_. It was just a small reassurance, a small safety net that you so clearly lacked, and a shaky breath escaped you as you dug your nails into the seat, ignoring your screaming ankle as your feet rooted into the floor.

Space travel was smoother than you expected, despite the sick feeling you were wrestling down. On Earth, you had heard horror stories of people training with G-force machines, until they passed out from the lack of oxygen or vomited or _worse,_ but here the ascent into the stars felt nothing more than a drop of your stomach, a crash of some intense anxiety, and a few rumbles of turbulence here and there. And don’t even get started on how _hyperspace_ felt.

You knew of the Mandalorian’s skill in piloting, maneuvering, and of his skill in virtually _everything,_ but c’mon, _you were in space for the first time._ You turned your head to look at him, trying to ground yourself somehow, fighting down the ever-increasing fear of the unknown inside you.

Cheek nestled against the seat, you studied his helmet, studied the way the light from the stars streaked across it in a beautiful, endless loop from chin to crown, studied _him_ in vain effort to glean more information on this experienced hunter (and to quell your overwhelming anxiety because _you were hurdling through space faster than Mach speeds_ , and that was just too much, right now). The Child was burrowed in his lap, napping, though whenever the Mandalorian could free a hand, he would rest it protectively over his tiny form.

A soft warmth settled in your core at that, a tiny ember radiating a glow through your stomach to your limbs, chasing away the anxiety.

It was obvious he could be a gentle man. He wasn’t out to kill you despite your knowledge of his most precious cargo, your unknown potentials, your _shirt._ It was certain that he saw you as a non-threat by this point, his own demeanor relaxing the more time he spent around you as he began learning of your clumsiness, your curiosity, your _softness_. To him, you were helpless; the way you were so clearly yearning to know more of his world, your inexperience with everything that was so natural to them all sparked a desire in him to protect you from the dangers you were thrown into.

You reminded him of the Child, sometimes, so small and vulnerable and inquisitively observing the world around you, though you played tough- big bark and toothless bite. Hell, even the _Kid_ was scarier than you. At least he wasn’t trembling in his very skin at being in space.

You watched him in reverence, nibbling your lip when his helmet turned just a fraction in your direction. You thought, if you focused hard enough, that you could make out a faint shadow outlining his chin, the stars lighting his skin from beneath the T-shaped visor. Was he observing you? Or beyond you?

_“You look pale.”_ He said, voice breaking the silence. Well, there was your question, answered. You offered a soft laugh, tense muscles relaxing a smidge, tamping down the anxiety-nausea more. His shoulders drooped minutely at that, a tiny motion you were too oblivious to see.

“First time in space.” You said back, eyes returning to the tunnel of light outside. “And I wish we had seatbelts.”

_“Seatbelts.”_ He repeated, as if he were unsure of the word, though it wasn’t quite a question, either. It was surprising how well he was adjusting to your existence and the tidbits of your culture and _words_ you brought from it, but you supposed a life of a bounty hunter required some adaptability.

“Seatbelts. Straps. Things to keep your helpless flesh-bag in place while you throw it at high speeds across any space.” You earned a buzz of static at that, that small smoldering ember inside you burning just a bit brighter, flush settling across your cheeks. Gods, _you_ were the only helpless one here.

_“I had ‘em. Seatbelts. They got taken by the Jawas and sold off before I could get them back.”_ He paused, turning his head towards you briefly. _“Guess they’re in high demand.”_

_You_ chuckled at that this time, sore body slowly curling into the seat, turning to face him entirely. The Mandalorian was joking with you. _The Mandalorian was joking with you._ The man notorious for few words and fewer clemencies was treating you with his own brand of gentleness and curiosity and wonder. You turned that thought over and over in your mind, a ghost of a smile turning up the corners of your lips as you mused at how his affinities for picking up strays revealed just how soft he was inside. He was once helpless too, you thought, and your heart skipped a beat.

As if he could read your mind, his cleared his throat again- a sound you were quickly memorizing- turning his helmet towards the bright expanse in front of him, both hands returning to the controls, marking the end of the conversation.

You wondered when reality would _really_ hit you. When nothing new was stealing your attention, when you weren’t being charmed by a man you thought you could only dream about, when the impossible became reality- you wondered _when_ you would begin to miss your old life, your old world, your few family and friends. Would you even miss it? Your old life was tumultuous, turbulent and sparse, filled with dreariness and _loneliness._

For now, you settled into the seat, knees drawing up as you hugged them, warming yourself in the gentle embers of your affection and awe. You wanted to keep watching him- he wasn’t doing much other than flipping the occasional switch and rechecking calculations, but _Gods,_ it was the most interesting thing you’ve seen. But you were powerless against your exhaustion, your eyes began to droop slowly as the nausea abated, the quiet hum of the engines lulling you.

Just as you closed your eyes, you felt a heavy fabric drape over you, the smell of smoke, leather, and something you _still_ couldn’t place delicately guiding you to sleep.

* * *

_“Kid.”_

You figured he was talking to Baby Yoda. You weren’t a _kid, thank you very much,_ and you opted to ignore his call the first time. The only kid in that gunship was the literal baby in his lap. Not you. You weren’t even sure how much time had passed, but it didn’t seem to be very long, so it absolutely could not have been you. And this blanket sure was cozy, the seat you were perched in surprisingly easy to rest in- or you were just that wiped.

“Kid. _Wake up._ ”

You suddenly shook, not of your own volition. A warm, gloved hand lingered on your shoulder, and your eyes cracked open to see who was disturbing your delicious, little nap. A sudden chill settled over your heated skin, and ah, yes, it was the Mandalorian who woke you, this is a normal thing now, and he’s fixing his cloak. He must be getting ready to go out.

It took a minute to catch up, sleepy neurons in your brain desperately trying to burn through the overload of information it barely could process when fully awake- _Not a coma, not on Earth, still in space, I’m so tired, my ankle hurts, that’s the Mandalorian, he let me use his cloak as a blanket, he let me use his cloak as a blanket, he-_

He had let you use his cloak as a blanket. Your brain shorted out.

_“We’re here. Get up.”_ His voice didn’t have the softness it did earlier. Whatever warmth you felt from the knowledge that you spent some amount of time under his cloak dissipated, the superficial chill from earlier spreading through your limbs, back down to your core. You scrambled up immediately, ignoring the ache in your joints and favoring your better leg, pushing stray strands of hair out of your eyes and readjusting your wrap.

He seemed upset? Disappointed? Distant?

“Sorry.” You apologized, again, for the millionth time since having met him. He descended the hatch to the lower deck, and you followed suit, though slower. “Didn’t mean to fall asleep. I’ve always made a terrible road trip buddy.”

Your attempt at lightening the mood didn’t land, or at least he didn’t reply, and you fidgeted, watching as he geared up, strapping his rifle to his back. The Kid was nowhere to be seen, and you peered around the cargo hold and back up the hatch, hoping to spot his little face.

_“He’s safe elsewhere.”_

Oh, good. You wondered where, but you figured he didn’t trust you enough for that, yet.

_“We don’t have much time. We need to restock the ship.”_

You sighed at _we,_ though that earned you a sharp look (he sure was emotive even if you couldn’t see his face) and an exasperated sigh back. The Mandalorian tossed something at you, and thankfully your butterfingers did not fail you this time.

It was a blaster. And a holster.

Your eyes widened, stunned. “Um-“

_“We’re not going anywhere dangerous.”_ He reassured, hard tone softening at your obvious shock, hands raised like he was calming a Blurrg. That made you feel a smudge better, though not by a lot. _“Just in case.”_

It was part of your every desire back on Earth to partake in such epic battles, of clashing lightsabers, of blaster shootouts, of gunship piloting. You remembered every fantasy, every daydream that earned you a reprimand to _stop living with your head in the clouds._ Yet…

Reality began to crash into you, plastering your confidence into the wall, crushing the air out of your lungs.

You’ve never shot a gun before, nor a blaster- obviously-, and the thought of having to potentially use it against _someone_ ignited the anxiety that was smoldering since you awoke, doubling the unease that you felt in hyperspace. The holster was easy enough to put on, as simple as a belt around your hips, but the solid weight of the blaster against your thigh forced a shaky and sharp exhale through your nostrils.

You set your jaw, not wanting to seem too ungrateful, too skittish, too _afraid_. You wanted this. You wanted adventure, right? And you certainly didn’t want to be a deadweight, the shame at his change in demeanor- at your oversleeping? Your laziness?- turning sour in your gut. The coldness in his tone oddly unnerved you- it wasn’t like you were particularly close, it wasn’t like you were lovers or even _friends,_ yet it bothered you, worried you, when you disappointed him, when he was cold towards you.

You fixated on the closed door behind the Mandalorian, bracing yourself for a planet, a people, a world you did not know and actions you’ve never been forced to take with a person you realized hardly trusted you.

_“Hey, kid. Look at me.”_

The warmth in his tone was surprising, breaking your stare as you whispered a quiet _yeah._ He was somehow closer, mind reeling at his sheer speed and silence, and the knuckle of his thumb gently chucked you under your chin.

_“You’re safe with me. It’s just in case.”_ He tried, one more time. His tone was gentle again, honeyed sweet with worry. How helpless did you seem to him, you wondered? His proximity served to calm you, his intoxicating cocktail of scents infiltrating your mind and clearing out the haze of fear. You nodded mindlessly, a pathetic smile quirking up the corners of your tight lips, chin tingling from where his touch set your nerves ablaze.

He didn’t seem pleased with your reaction, though, and he stepped forward again, crowding you.

You didn’t step back like you did in the alleyway on Tatooine, partially because your ankle was starting to _really_ hurt, and partially because you weren’t so afraid of him anymore. You allowed him to close the distance, a short thrill running through you at your own inaction, at the way he paused just as he was a thread’s width from you. Maker, he was tall- broad, armored shoulders just grazing your forehead.

His head tilted as he looked down at you.

_“Sit down.”_ He murmured, after some time of observing you. The chin of his helmet jerked towards the vacc-tube behind you. You turned with the motion, staring at the door-less facility behind you.

“You… want me to use the _toilet_?”

It was sort of funny to you, how when his attempts at reassurance aren’t immediately validated with a _right enough_ response, he resorts to things that people would normally find _intimidating._ Static buzzed from his helmet, one hand briefly twitching by his side. Did he just _choke?_

_“No-“_ He quickly added, a familiar buzz of him clearing his throat filling the air. _“Just- Just sit down. Anywhere. The vacc-tube was the closest- your_ ankle.”

Oh. It took a few more beats for your cloudy brain to process- maybe you did lose a few brain cells following your _bike-accident-time-space-travel_ \- before you sputtered out a snort, melting into a relieved laugh.

“Oh.” You repeated, out loud this time, smiling foolishly, ghosts of giggles still whooshing out of your nose in soft, little puffs. Whatever tension you felt slid from your shoulders, the weight of your anxiety lifting its vice grip on your chest, laughter subsiding as you observed the cargo hold for a better seating arrangement. You decided not to give him any sass for that mishap, still unsure of his emotional state but also because you didn’t want to shut him down for _trying._

A lone box of cargo would do- tall enough so the warrior wouldn’t have to crouch to dress your wound, but also spared you the embarrassment of sitting on a _toilet_ in front of the most dangerous man in the parsec-, and you made your way over, attempting to hoist yourself over the edge to take a seat. Your first attempt ended in spectacular failure, arms frightfully wobbling beneath you as you struggled to push yourself _up._

Okay, so, your upper body strength was lacking, somewhat. You tried again, grunting with exertion. You _knew_ he was staring at you.

“Give me a second-” You wheezed, aching muscles protesting you even trying. Your ankle remained unhelpful. “Just warming up. Gravity, uh, works differently in my- in my planet than here.”

_“Sure.”_ He answered, voice sounding a bit further away.

It was karma. Near instant karma. You kept trying, from every angle, doing your best to clamber up the side of a box that only came up to your mid-chest. It was a pitiful sight, honestly, and you turned your head after a good few minutes of trying to see that the Mandalorian was just leaning against the fucking opposing wall, watching you with his thumbs looped in his belt, one foot crossed over the other. The perfect picture of _casual_ , and you grit your teeth, face flushing.

_“More than a second.”_ He quipped, tone level, slow, though you could _feel_ the playfulness behind his words. He righted himself, languidly making his way towards you. _“Don’t have much time left, kid.”_

“Not a kid, and says the guy who watched me struggle for a solid five minutes-” You sniped back, though you cut off with a gasp, feeling hands wrap around your middle and _lift,_ setting you on the cargo box without any issue. He didn’t even make a sound of exertion, breathe, _anything._ Your face burned red to your ears. “Show off.”

He chuckled at that, a sound that sent an electric thrill straight up your spine, though he offered no other response, popping open a med-pack. He gently unlaced your shoe, stowing it away behind him as he observed the purple-black mess your ankle had become. No wonder it had hurt so badly.

_“You’re surprisingly tough for someone who couldn’t even lift their own body weight.”_

You bit back a snarky remark, because despite the underhanded compliment, he was acknowledging your resilience- but also because his large, warm, _gentle_ hands were slowly testing the range of motion that your ankle could tolerate and it _hurt._ It didn’t sound or feel broken, just battered to hell and back, and he continued knowing it was something he would be able to treat. Jaw clenched, you refused to give him any glimpse of pain on your face, staring into his visor just as he was your eyes.

_“You can say it hurts.”_ He offered quietly in response to your sudden and terse tameness, dropping his helmet to locate the wrap, fingers deftly searching through the small med-pack. _“No sense in hiding it when I already know.”_

“It doesn’t hurt.” You replied, a little too fast. Your lip stuck out in a pout, petulant. The Mandalorian paused in his search to look at that, gloved thumb stroking your Achilles’ heel in his light grip, before starting his search again, wordless, soundless.

You really were something else.

_“You can stay in the ship, while I go resupply.”_ Another merciful offer. He trusted you- or your lack of flight skills- enough to offer to leave you alone on _his_ ship. He plucked the wrap from the pack, beginning to tie a splint for your ankle, and you wondered how the hands of a feared killer could be so soft. The wrap was tight around your joint, stabilizing it, providing near immediate relief. The Mandalorian replaced your shoe, tying the laces neatly, and stood, handing you a small tablet.

“I’m okay. I’m going.” The reply came a little too quick, again, snatching the item from his fingers. It drew a ragged sigh from the armored man before you.

_“Stubborn thing.”_ He mumbled, voice barely above a whisper, turning away to discard the empty wrappers. Had you been even slightly less doe-eyed, slightly less _vulnerable-_ he tamped down his frustration, lungs deflating in another defeated sigh. He was not a man to be run by someone else, but somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to lose his temper at you. You reminded him too much of a tiny, loth-cat- eyes wide, claws soft, playful.

You hopped down from the box, bearing your weight onto your good leg, rotating the pill in between your fingers.

“Thank you.” You said, eyeing as he slung a bag over his shoulders. “For this. For taking care of me.”

He said nothing to that, just tipping his helmet in a short nod, and you flashed a small smile back at that, keeping close to him as your mobility returned. With a press of a few buttons, the ramp opened with a hiss, and you resisted every urge to grab at something, _anything_ as a new world opened up to you. Cool air jetted across your skin, your eyes squinting at the harsh light, arms raised in defense of your poor face.

_“Keep close. We’re just here for a resupply and we’ll be on our way.”_ He spoke, before his stride picked up, purposeful, quick, and quiet. You followed, slower and louder in your steps, tumbling after him. You couldn’t have been happier to feel the ground again, after how many hours suspended in flight.

The smell of vegetation, soil, and _earth_ struck a homesick chord with you. It smelled so much like Earth- _your home-_ where the trees grew thick and tall, grounds moist with the morning dew. Hands flew to your eyes to rub them, desperate to get your eyes to adjust to the blinding light following the darkness of space.

It took a minute, but you gasped in realization once your eyes adjusted to the change in light. You’ve been here before, though just not the _real place_ , but you knew this land, the architecture-

“Are we in Batuu?”

_“Yes. Are you familiar with this land?”_

“I think I am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> magichandthing.tumblr.com


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> follow me at magichandthing on tumblr!
> 
> Thank you guys SO much for your support. It really means so much to me that people are enjoy my self-indulgent piece.

_It took a minute, but you gasped in realization once your eyes adjusted to the change in light. You’ve been here before, though just not the real place, but you knew this land, the architecture-_

_“Are we in Batuu?”_

_“Yes. Are you familiar with this land?”_

_“I think I am.”_

* * *

_hrumgatha_ _;_ [Ithroese]

_(noun) “Lone-mouths”_

* * *

Safe to say, this version of Batuu was undeniably different from your experience at the one in Disneyland. For one, it lacked, distinctly, children in prams pushed by their heat-stricken and exhausted parents, toting fanny packs and stripped wallets, lacked Mickey ears, lacked the occasional, arguing couple breaking under the stress of their first trip together. It was also less crowded, surprisingly for a trading post, but you didn’t feel as suffocated between warm bodies, here.

Secondly- most importantly- in this version were literal _alien species_ wandering its wares. Your ears caught fractions of languages you don’t recognize here and there, bursting through familiarity of English- Galactic Basic- your gaze searching to see _who_ was speaking these languages, what were they, how did they _look?_ You felt at ease despite the unfamiliarity, trailing behind the Mandalorian.

This Batuu was still just as bustling, stands buzzing with traders haggling, shop attendants hollering their prices- or at other adventurers-, the _clang_ of metal reverberating around the bazaar. And the _smells,_ Maker, the _smells_ , of meats and sweets drifting through the air, wafted to you. Your stomach rumbled, quietly.

The First Order didn’t have its grip here yet, their starship bases pointedly absent in the crevices of the canyons, blood-red banners missing from the tops of Batuu’s familiar, spired structures. The grounds were free of prowling Stormtroopers harassing denizens for identification, free of the oppressive chokehold of fear (though for you, the ‘troopers were there for _show,_ actors you laughed and took photos with). Calculating the timeline, you missed the First Order’s reign by a few years, and despite your knowledge of this universe, you wondered if it would unravel the same way as the movies did, without the omniscient powers of a writer to guide the plot.

You certainly hoped not.

The anxiety that clutched your heart earlier eased its grip as you continued further into the outpost, wonder warming through you once more. Even though you saw so many different species of beings, heard so many languages, saw so many weapons, it _was_ relatively peaceful, here. The most violence you had seen so far was a shopkeeper throwing some traveler out, _harrumphing_ something you could not understand by word, but knew by body language.

Annoying customers, it seemed, were a universality and you pressed your fist to your mouth, trying to muffle a snort.

That caught your companion’s attention. His pace slowed a fraction, enough for you to be walking beside him, instead of behind. A spark of light flared from his helmet as he glanced down at you.

_“You’re at ease.”_ He stated, tone as even, voice as hushed, as always. _“You said Batuu was familiar to you?”_

That was a surprise. He hadn’t yet asked you about yourself, and you fumbled uselessly for words; how could you explain to him that in your home, Batuu was part of a theme park? Did theme parks even exist here, on any planet?

“It’s… It’s somewhere that I made lots of great memories in,” You settled on, a fond smile perking your lips into a smile. “I’ve been once- to our version of Batuu- with some of my friends. It’s a lot different here, though.”

He hummed at that, pleased enough with your explanation, nodding near-imperceptibly, his visor still trained on you. You’ve come to enjoy being under his gaze, come to treasure his curiosity regarding you, just as fascinated of you as you were him. Your heart beat a little stronger, attention no longer fixated on the world around you, just to the presence of the man walking beside you, the sounds of your mismatched steps faintly crunching the dirt below, to his _voice_.

_“What was it like? Your Batuu.”_

His curiosity was obviously unsated; he ventured out to ask _more,_ his voice softer, more probing than usual. You responded with a soft laugh, steering yourself a smidgen closer to him as you walked, together. His pace has slowed considerably, as if he were focused on you, and you decided to indulge that curiosity, taking advantage of his better mood.

“Well,” You began, fingers playing with your cloak as you told him of your Batuu, storying your memories of the land. In your world, you had said, Batuu was a place of fun, of fantasy, but none of the wonder you felt going _there_ matched how you felt _here._

You made it a point to avoid speaking of the First Order.

Eventually, you trailed off and began talking of your planet, not just your Batuu, but your _home_. The Mandalorian’s helmet never left your face as you spoke, only turning to the road before the two of you once he was certain you were finished. He didn’t say anything else after that, just uttering a soft grunt acknowledging your tale.

You didn’t mind his lack of response, smiling as you warmed yourself in your shared presence again, attention returning to the shops around you, the sights and sounds slowly filtering back into your senses. He, too, returned his attention to the shops, quickly finding his urgency again once he realized how low the sun was getting. You tried to match his speed, kicking up the dirt that glowed beneath you in the waning light, beams of sun painting a brilliant orange tint along your path. How had the day gone so quickly?

The two of you walked for a brief time, before he nudged your shoulder with his arm, gesturing to a door in an alleyway and beckoning you to follow.

Of course, you did.

The door hissed as it opened to your dual presences, and you gasped. It appeared to be a general store of some sort, and while the architecture of the land outside you remained near identical to your Batuu, the _inside_ was so wildly different from what you expected. Rustic, simple, and decidedly _not_ decorated for show, your gaze washed over the almost-disorganized wares in the dim, warm light. Candle-lit lamps hung from the high, rounded ceiling, shaped like tiny, glittering raindrops, such a stark contrast to the technology of the sliding doors you had walked through.

The Mandalorian entered, not sparing a second glance unlike you, headed directly to what he needed, saying something to the shocked shopkeeper in another language.

Your pace was slower. Fruits and other produce you’ve never seen filled woven baskets perched near the entrance; packaged meats, spices lined the shelves inside, and you slunk through the aisles to observe it all, even if you couldn’t read the labels. You spent some time lost in the rows, before returning to the entrance, crouching in front of the baskets of produce. One product in particular caught your eye, and you picked up some fruit shaped, colored, and _hard_ like a hockey puck, turning it over in your palms. Was this even _edible?_

You set it down. As you picked up something that resembled a red pear, the Mandalorian joined you, his bag now filled.

_“That’s a Muja fruit.”_ He said, to announce his presence behind you, pointing to the spiky, red not-pear in your hand. You grinned, relaxed and dopey, analyzing the prickly little thing as you repeated its name in an awed whisper. He granted you a few more moments to stare at the fruit, before patting the top of your head twice with a heavy, awkward hand.

_“It’s time to go, now. We have one more stop,”_ He reminded you, and you stowed away the _Muja_ fruit, tucking it lovingly back into the basket, amongst others of its kind. The Mandalorian’s helmet emitted a soft static at that, one you didn’t catch, adjusting his bag slung over his shoulder. You turned to face him, eyeing it.

“Did you get what you were looking for?” You asked, holding your palms out towards him, towards the bag.

_“Yeah. The Kid eats a lot. I shoot things a lot.”_ He shooed them aside, rejecting your silent offer to help, and you laughed again, both at his response and at your ability to wordlessly communicate with him. Such short time spent with him, yet you had melted into comfort and trust around him- you couldn’t say if he had felt the same, but you had a sneaking suspicion he did. He marveled at your impossibilities the same way you did his.

The two of you exited into the purple-blue twilight, and your head tilted up towards him at the sound of a sigh.

_“I hope it’s still open,”_ He murmured, meeting your questioning gaze, guiding you out of the alleyway and back onto the main road.

“We should hurry, then.” You said, cheekily, nudging his arm with your shoulder, briefly, a copy of his touch earlier. He nudged you back, gently, but to herd you into the correct direction, making a sharp turn.

_“_ You _should hurry. You’re slowing me down with that ankle of yours.”_ He said back, not maliciously, voice filled with too much _soft_ to have any bite. That pulled a sharp laugh from you, but you did speed up your pace, watching as he did too, after you. _“Slow down, you don’t even know where you’re going.”_

The concern was endearing, but you stuck out your tongue at him.

“My ankle’s fine. Thought I should _hurry up.”_ You replied, mocking his deep, gruff tone, arms stiff aside your puffed chest. The Mandalorian didn’t reply to that, only grunting and looking away from you and your caricature of him. You laughed again- you were doing that so often, lately- but settled into a more manageable, but still hurried pace, letting him lead the way again as an easy silence settled between the two of you.

You wanted to nudge him, again, wanted to walk beside him instead of behind him.

You didn’t push it.

It wasn’t long before you ended up in another shop. This time, the interior was strikingly similar to the last, but instead of produce, clothes lined the walls and laid in makeshift displays. You turned towards the Mandalorian, observing his worn clothes. It didn’t seem to have any real compromise.

“New clothes? I can patch up anything, if you need,” You offered. “My sewing skills aren’t the best, but I can do-“

_“Not for me.”_ He stated simply, arms crossing over his chest at your gaze. _“For you.”_

Your brows drew in a frown as you gave yourself a once-over. Your clothes were perfectly fine, _thank you very much,_ your jeans only a few years old, your hoodie and wrap perfectly snug, and your shirt-

_Oh._ Your _shirt._

_“You’re drawing too much attention. No one dresses like that here. I’m trying to lay low.”_ He interjected hurriedly, before you could protest, before you could _tease_. His helmet was no longer pointed at you, instead turned as if he were browsing the wares, arms staying crossed, and you bit your lip to stifle a smile at his sudden chatter. Gods, you wanted to tease him at his obvious embarrassment, his even-more-so obvious attempts at covering up his reasons for doing something so out of the way. _“And your pants are ripped. You should patch them.”_

“The rips were intentional.” You shot back, quickly, sniping for a reaction in his rare, flustered state.

_“_ What _? Why?”_ His helmet snapped back towards you, arms loosening around each other, and you broke, grinning widely. Catching onto your game, the Mandalorian huffed, turning away again, and you _felt_ the pout that became him. The next time he spoke, he was level again.

_“That doesn’t seem practical.”_ He said. You said nothing back, smiling at his profile. _“Anyways, go get something that will_ protect _you.”_

You scampered off, pleased, losing yourself in the rows of clothes. The Mandalorian stood behind, leaning against the wall of the entrance as he watched you disappear into the racks. The fabrics in the back intrigued you- the paler colors drawing you in, breezy and soft and so, very _you_. You passed by the attendant, a creature with two mouths, one on each side of his hammered head, its rows of teeth glimmering in the low light as it grinned at you. It slunk forward, past the counter, body angled in such a way it blocked your only way out.

Chills shot down your spine and you felt that familiar, anxious drop of your stomach when its shadow hung over you.

“What a _peculiar_ creature,” it purred, one- surprisingly humanoid- hand plucking at the wrap around you, revealing the clothes the Mandalorian _just_ said _drew attention._ You turned, quickly, to face it, blood turning to ice. Your thigh tingled from where your blaster lay against it, in its holster. “Now, who might you be? You aren’t just a normal human girl.”

You wished you could take back the teasing, now, as you were pinned against the wall between this horrifying… _thing_. Your wit escaped you, your words dying in your throat as you stared wide-eyed at the shopkeep, hands clutching a shirt you had picked out earlier. Funny how you had found yourself in the same position just a day ago, with a much _more_ dangerous man, and yet you felt more afraid here.

Maybe it’s because you knew that the Mandalorian would never actually hurt you.

“I asked you a question, _hrumgatha.”_ It warned, and you opened your mouth to stammer out a reply, breaking your stare as it leaned closer, fingers tightening in its grip. You wanted to call out to him, to come and get this creature away from you, but you didn’t want to trouble him anymore, didn’t want him to be _right_ after you teased him _._

You tried to stare defiantly at the shopkeep, but your breaths were coming in short, useless gasps, head spinning.

“Such a delicate, little thing. You’d fetch a nice price.” It didn’t seem angry at your lack of response, absolutely _relishing_ in your reactions, pitching closer toward you still, almost touching you. It reached a hand up, the top of it angled towards you, and just as it’s gnarled knuckles were about to touch your cheek -

_“I’d leave her alone, if I were you.”_

The air left you, heart pounding in your ears as you melted into the wall at the sound of a familiar voice. The creature drew up, lip curling as it snarled at the interruption, though the sound faded as soon as it laid eyes on _who_ did. Unmarred beskar did do most of the speaking, after all.

“Is this your girl?” It said, turning away, recomposing itself, adjusting its robe as if it wasn’t just about to _violate_ you. The Mandalorian nodded, once, with surety, and had it been any other time, you would have smiled at his confident recognition that you were _his_ girl _._

“Apologies, sir.” It replied, smoothly, _slithering_ back behind the counter. The Mandalorian stayed where he was, as did you. “Please, continue to browse my wares, and enjoy a complimentary spree.”

Beskar did _a lot_ of talking.

The Mandalorian didn’t move, didn’t speak, helmet still angled towards the creature behind the counter, until it had taken it upon itself to _skedaddle,_ though with poise _._ Moments passed, and you finally _could breathe_ , inhaling deeply, stutteringly, offering a shaky smile to your savior.

“Thanks.” You whispered, “Sorry I-“

_“Why are_ you _sorry?”_ He shot back, head snapping to you, voice deep with malice, and you flinched, staring wide eyed. Time slowed, though the racing thoughts didn’t- _did you make him angry you should have listened he’s gonna ditch you you stupid-_

A rough sigh broke you from your headspace, and he strode over to you, quick as always, unsticking you from the wall with gentle hands. You looked up into his helmet, fighting back tears as you searched the dark visor for an answer. Emotions were overwhelming you, running from your parched mouth to your rolling gut like a sour, cold medicine, and you set your quivering jaw to try and _stop_ _it_ , to _cut it out_.

_“I’m not angry at you,”_ He muttered, hands still around your narrow shoulders, warm and grounding. The Mandalorian’s hands left you, after a beat, though one brushed a stray lock of hair from your face, thumb quickly chucking under your chin again. Blood rushed to your face at that, relief burning through you. _“Just get what you need and let’s go.”_

You quickly picked the necessities, desperate to leave, desperate to change out of these clothes into something that _protected_ you, like he had said. A man like him would be right, would be experienced in the ways of _this_ world, and you bitterly regretted teasing him, though he didn’t lecture you on it or gloat. The shopkeep didn’t return even as you exited with the unpaid goods, and you were grateful for it, holding the fabrics close to your chest as you stepped into a darkened Batuu.

The walk was silent, uncomfortably so. It was clear the Mandalorian was still harboring some anger, simmering irritation rolling off him in waves. You just held your new clothes tighter to you, sidestepping closer and nudging his arm. He turned his helmet towards you.

“I’m okay, you know.” You tried, voice steady. Anything less and you wouldn’t fool him, as keen as he was. “Just forgot this wasn’t my Batuu.”

He contemplated that for a moment, turning your words over in his head. Naturally as possible, to convince him you _truly_ were okay, you tried to look around the world again, and as per your nightly routine, you looked up into the sky. It shimmered with stars you didn’t know, and the sudden emotion of missing home, missing _safety,_ missing the familiarity of the sky you rode home under, combined with the events of the night, drew tears to your eyes again.

_“You don’t have to hide it.”_ He said, vaguely, after some time of watching you look _up_. _“It’s okay.”_

If you clutched the fabrics in your hand any tighter, you’d be ripping them, so you forced yourself to relax, letting it go to wipe at a tear, returning your gaze back to him. You chuckled, a soft and strained sound, grateful to the darkness that shrouded your unconvincing smile.

“Thank you,” You murmured, voice watery. He said nothing back, and the two of you made your return to the ship, side-by-side the whole way, him matching your pace. When your shoulder brushed up against his arm, longer than your playful nudges, he didn’t move away, allowing that moment of prolonged contact. You were thankful for it, and the roiling brew of emotions came to pass.

You unstuck yourself from him as the _Razor Crest_ came into view.

_“I should check on the baby.”_ He spoke, pausing in front of the ship’s entrance to face you. One hand lifted to hesitantly tuck your hair behind your ear, again. You smiled, genuinely, resisting the urge to tilt your head into his palm. _“You seem okay, now.”_

“I am.” You responded. “Am I really that terrible of a liar?”

He laughed at that, a smooth, deep, rumbling in his chest. Your heart leapt into your throat, eyes widening just a fraction, and his thumb brushed your chin, gentle and lingering. His glove was soft, the leather worn with use, though you could feel the hard lines of his hand underneath. Goosebumps erupted on your skin.

_“C’mon. The Kid’s probably hungry.”_ He reminded, gently, as he activated the hatch with his free hand. The Mandalorian paused, and you desperately wished you could see what his face looked like- what his _expression_ was- as he looked at you, as he let his touch linger for longer.

The clanging of the metal broke the spell, and he pulled away with no words, disappearing into the ship. It took a moment, but you followed him in, the warmth of his laughter still ringing in your ears.

You watched his retreating back, vanishing into the cockpit, and you reveled in your affection for him. Once you were all the way in, you pressed the button to close the ramp behind you.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry it's been so long since an update! Some intense school stuff happened. Anyways, more Baby Yoda in this chapter, plus some big developments! It's a shorter chapter, but I hope you enjoy :) I love me some soft!surprised!Mando. 
> 
> Thank you everyone for your continued support and love. I love you all! I'm sorry I'm so bad at responding to comments, but I read every single one and it warms me to my very soul to see them. Thank you so deeply! 
> 
> Follow me at magichandthing.tumblr.com

_uj'alayi_ _;_ [oo-jah-LIE-ee]

 _(noun) a very dense, very sweet cake made from crushed nuts, dried fruit and_ _spices_ _, and then soaked in a sticky scented syrup called uj'jayl. Simplified as uj cake._

* * *

You didn’t expect anything less than what you had just walked into; whatever… _mood_ you were experiencing was thoroughly silenced as your – and _his,_ no doubt - eyes drank in the scene. The ramp behind you shut with a solemn finality you weren’t quite ready for, sealing you to your fates; the Mandalorian was silent before you, broad shoulders eclipsing half of your view, though if you squinted, you could see the barest tremble, given away by the dim light that rolled along the reflective beskar.

Even with half your vision obscured _,_ it was a _lot_.

The Kid, _understandably,_ was upset with the both of yours’ woeful lack of parenting skills. Neither of you were equipped with the basics of parenting- or even parental _instincts,_ apparently- leaving what was basically a toddler alone on the ship for most the light cycle. Mercifully, aside from the absolute mayhem the little tot had brought down, he seemed no worse for wear aside from the equally intense pout plastered on his wrinkly little face.

You breathed in, then out. The Mandalorian did the same, taking a step forward to scoop the Child from the floor into his arms, turning him this way and that. _Examining._ The silence was unsettling, much like the guilt roiling through the both of you.

You broke the silence first, after a few more beats to process.

“It’s… not _so_ bad.” You tried, reaching down to begin cleaning up after setting your new clothes on an intact box. “I mean, it could have been worse, right? At least he’s okay.”

_“No. Thankfully.”_ His tone was clipped short with irritation, still intently searching the Child for potential injuries, or to focus his attentions elsewhere to curb his growing frustration. One, gloved hand smoothed down the downy fuzz on the Kid’s head, a little heavily, but the two of them heaved a deep sigh before he turned to face you. _“You don’t have to do that. You need rest.”_

You barked a short laugh at him, looking up, purposefully ignoring the way your heart clenched pathetically at the sight of the Child nestled warmly in the unarmored crook of his elbow. For the fear he struck in every, living being in the parsec, he was nothing but gentle and sweet and _soft_ with the bundle in his arms. _And to you, sometimes,_ your brain unhelpfully supplied. Your traitorous heart did one flip, then two, and it took conscious effort to regain control of your rhythm.

“Rest, shmest.” You said, waving a hand towards him dismissively, turning your attention back to the ground. “You’ve taken care of me too much so far. Let me help.”

He was there, in front of you, soundlessly as ever, and you snuck a glance up from your position hunched on the floor, offering a placid smile to ease his worry. The Mandalorian stared down at you, saying nothing, before offering a hand to you to grasp, jutting it out almost insistently, almost like a _demand_.

_“Then help me with the Kid, instead. He seems to like you, so far.”_ He grumbled, gently, after a pause.

You _snorted,_ which you were pretty sure he wasn’t expecting. Maybe a wide-eyed stare you so often gave when he knew you were processing, or maybe a snappy quip back, about how you were _fine,_ that you wanted to help clean or-

You took his hand and his thoughts stopped.

“I’ll help with the Kiddo regardless.” You murmured, pulling yourself up, though your hand lingered for the barest of moments before dropping to your side. The worn leather of his gloves felt soft against your own skin, broken in with so much use, and you resisted the urge to swipe your thumb across his knuckles. The warmth of his hand seeping through the gloves stoked that small flame in you, your heart pounding wildly again.

But most maddening of all, your index finger brushed against _skin_. His pulse was just as rapid as yours.

The Child cooed, breaking the two of you from the spell. You shuffled your feet, clearing your throat, hands dropping to your side like you were burnt. The darkness of his visor just stared at you, his own hand still outstretched, a phantom silhouette of the fleeting moment of contact you shared.

“Um-“ You whispered, stupidly. His hand dropped. “Can you show me where you keep his things?”

_“Yeah.”_ He muttered, just as stupidly. _“Behind you. In that- in that cabinet.”_

You wondered how long it’s been since you’ve held someone’s hand like that, how long it’s been for _him_ to experience physical contact that wasn’t violent, to experience feeling someone else’s skin on his. Sure, you’ve bumped shoulders, he’s bopped your chin, but to share the feeling of skin-on-skin, no matter how tiny, no matter how brief- you two knew that it wasn’t a common occurrence. For either of you.

And knowing that his pulse was running just as wild as yours, just as quick and hard and _desperate,_ made you _burn._

You turned to face the gun cabinet, searching along the wall for another that wasn’t full of lethal weapons. Teeth found your lower lip as you gently suppressed a ridiculous grin, fingers softly running along the metal to find the latch, carefully stepping over the chaos of the floor beneath you, cheeks flush and eyes unseeing. You had just met the man- a man who was supposedly the galaxy’s best killer- and here you were, washed in the warmth of his gentle, reciprocated affections-

_Maybe it’s a reaction,_ you thought, quickly, to ground yourself, _maybe he just was shocked._

But something told you it wasn’t just that. You found the cabinet, opening it to reveal fresh clothing and some snacks for the Child. You plucked one of each, and turned to return, only to find him _right there_ , _Childless._ You risked a glance to your side and saw the baby on a bunk ( _wasn’t that just a wall before?)_ , playing with his favorite, metal ball.

It never stopped surprising you just how silently and quickly this man moved.

It also never stopped surprising you just how _often_ you found yourself cornered by him.

You’ve come to love being under the intensity of his gaze.

If you strained, you could hear the subdued whispers of his breath, each inhale, each exhale, beskar on his chest glinting with every, slight movement, and subconsciously, you matched his rhythm, matched his tense posture, eyes never leaving his helmet. You weren’t going to speak first, you weren’t going to break whatever mood he was in by opening your stupid, big mouth and saying something snarky.

Time slowed around the two of you, even the Child quiet in his distracted play, content to have his father around and safe.

He stepped the barest amount closer, sharp inhale crackling through his vocoder. He gripped your chin, this time a bit harder than he did outside of the ship, thumb trembling beneath the glove. When he spoke, he only uttered one word.

“ _Uj'alayi.”_

You blinked.

“What?”

He chuckled.

“ _Uj'alayi.”_ He repeated, voice honey-sweet, deep, _dense_ , _slower._ _“A dessert. Popular with Mandalorians.”_

The breath was knocked from you in a pitiful, little _oh,_ lungs crushed from the sheer rush of _heat_ you felt from six, simple words. You desperately tried to memorize the sound of Mando’a falling from his lips, wide eyes even wider, and gods, you wished you could just _kiss_ him. And with the way his thumb brushed over your lower lip, you had hoped he wanted to do the same.

You were so close to taking his thumb into your mouth.

A squeak to your right tore you from the moment, and you rushed over to scoop up the Child, balancing his body in one arm while you juggled the supplies, desperate to quell the burgeoning heat in your core. You barked out another laugh, face burning from that absolutely _filthy_ thought, hurriedly bundling up the little one and offering up a snack, back facing the Mandalorian while you babbled some nonsense about cleaning up, about taking off now, he needs to pilot, and-

He was on you again, wordless, the rounded _smooth_ of his chest plate against your shoulders as he overlooked you to observe the Child. With unabashed audacity, he reached over your shoulder to stroke under the kid’s chin as he ate, his tricep weighing heavily on your narrow shoulder. You swallowed thickly, refusing to lean back into him, because you weren’t certain _what_ it would entail, how far you’d go, if you could ever _come back from it._

The Mandalorian spent some time like that, just petting and affectionately nudging the Child’s cheek, arm unnecessarily propped upon your shoulder, chest ghosting along your back. As each second ticked by, you grew more and more tense, each breath squeezing your lungs instead of clearing it, drowning in your desire to just _lean back_ like you’ve always done- but somehow now it felt different.

Some time passed before a soft laugh rumbled from him, breaking through the silence and his vocoder with a harsh static, and you bristled- _he was_ teasing _you, now._ The initial wave of indignation settled into a feeling of fullness, tension all but melting away as you offered a breathy laugh back, turning to face him, Child in tow.

“You’re awful, you know that, right?” You griped, tone all but mushy affection, eyes on him though your hands were attending to the bundle in your arms. A feather-light, but sharp, gasp tore through him at the sight of you, _his son_ balanced on your hip, cheeks flushed pink, hair a dim halo around your head under the low light. You noticed a hand twitching at his side- no doubt wanting to reach out, to touch, to tease again- though he stayed where he was.

_“I’m not awful.”_ He muttered back, unimaginatively, earning him a snort of laughter from you. The Child yawned, content with his full belly and warm cloak and loving arms. The Mandalorian gently jerked his chin in the direction of the baby in your arms, then the bunk. _“His pram is in the cockpit. Go put him down and then come and get rest.”_

You huffed at him, doing your best to capture the essence of the hands-on-hips-business pose the best you could with your arms full. “I’m going to help you, after.”

_“Nope. Rest.”_ His voice was tender but gave no room for argument, hands at your waist, nudging you to the ladder up to the cockpit. _“The mess can wait. I’ll get us into hyperspace and by then, you’ll have some rest and we’ll be in safety.”_

With some resistance, you complied, though as per your very nature, you couldn’t help but stick out your tongue at him. That earned you an exasperated sigh, a giggle bubbling from your chest in response. You laid one hand over the Child’s head, starting to climb up the ladder to the upper deck, when you heard him murmur something below you. You stuck your head through the opening and peered down at him, eyes washing over his crouched form as he began to pick up the mess on the floor.

“Did you say something?”

_“No.”_ He lied, not looking at you. _“Hurry it up, uj’alayi.”_

Oh. Your face blossomed into a not-so-flattering red hue at the nonchalant nickname, and you sputtered stupidly, retreating from that assault without another word. Hurriedly, you evacuated to the safety and solitude of the cockpit, sleeping bundle held tight to your hammering chest. You sincerely hoped your thundering heartbeat wouldn’t wake the tot, fingers pushing against the safety mechanism to open the carriage.

The baby stirred a little at the familiar hiss, though he settled as you cooed at him, shushing him gently and organizing his tiny peach fuzz hairs on his head. You marveled at him, so small, so cute, and you couldn’t help but press a kiss in between his ears, palm patting a soothing rhythm on his back. Laying him down, you tucked him in, shutting the pram and waiting to see if he’d wake.

Silence. You took the opportunity to back up, though the sight of the pilot’s seat- and the passenger’s seat- stopped you from leaving entirely. The leather of his seat was worn, crackled from years of heavy beskar breaking into it, indentations of his form left in the seats. You ran your fingers along the edge of his seat, reminiscing of just a day ago, where you watched him and fell just a bit harder.

How had things moved so fast?

You pondered that thought, though you didn’t have long as the doors hissed open behind you, the Mandalorian stepping through. Your hands never left the seat, though your head turned to see him from your periphery.

He always walked with purpose, you mused. Even when he was walking slow, observing you, listening to you, he still walked as if he had all the confidence of knowing one’s place in the world. Even in a tight space like this, he walked towards you like he had business with you, and you smiled brightly, turning to face him fully.

_“Is he asleep?”_ He asked, voice softer, lower than usual. _Considerate, careful for baby._ You replied with a nod and he closed the gap between the two of you again, fingers ghosting along your arm. _“Good. Go rest, now.”_

“But the mess-“ You began, cut off by him shaking his head, fingers gripping your arm and _squeezing_.

_“It’s taken care of. Go rest.”_

Gods, his voice still set off every nerve in your body when it reached _that_ pitch- that level of tenderness, depth, quiet. Admittedly, you were exhausted- the day’s events were not entirely pleasant, and there was a lot more walking than you were really used to doing. But it shattered your heart to think you’d be away from him, to think you would be wasting precious time you didn’t know the quantity of _sleeping._

But the tilt of his chin and the way he sidestepped to allow you to pass him brooked a tone of _no arguing, time to go._ You resisted a huff, but you reached out to gently grasp his hand before leaving, eyes on his visor.

“Thanks.” You said, your fingers softly squeezing his own, index finger rooting out the vulnerable, exposed spot on his wrist. Finding it, you offered a smile, stroking his skin gingerly, though not for long. “Next time, let me help more. Please.”

He nodded, saying nothing else. You released him from your hold, tucking his hesitance at your action in the back of your mind, sighing as you started your way out.

“Goodnight, Mando.” You whispered, leaning against the doorframe, temple resting against the cool metal. “You get some rest, too.”

The Mandalorian just stared at you on your way out, soundless, stunned. It wasn’t until the door shut with the _click_ of finality that he swallowed, whispering back a broken, crackly _goodnight,_ sinking into his seat to start up the ship.

Not without staring blankly at the console for a few minutes, first, though.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tbh I’m not too happy with this chapter and the pacing/characterization of Mando in it. Please forgive me! I wanted to write out some horndog shit. I hope you like and thank you all for your continued support!
> 
> (PS I'm sorry I'm literal ass at replying to comments I swear I love and read every single one...)

You dreamed of home.

Your dream world was dusted with the fuzzy grey of sleep, static-ing at the corners of your vision, colors and sounds muted, though you understood them to _be._ You dreamed of Earth, of your friends, your parents, your neighborhood; all enveloped in warm, cotton-candy fuzz, visions of mundane memories striking a homesick chord in your subconscious. Even your job- as dull, droll, dreary as it was- forced the comfort of familiarity to instinctually wash over you in the dusky haze. 

And ah, it hit you, now. You _missed_ it.

Toeing the line between sleep and wakefulness, now, you turned in the cot, drawing the sheets closer to your chin. How much time had passed? The low, steady rumble of the ship and the lack of significant jostling indicated to you that the Mandalorian- _Mando-_ wasn’t actively steering it. Were you still in hyperspace?

Carefully, you sat up, taking care to avoid bonking your head on the top of the bunk, still conscientious of your body though sleep-addled and drowsy. At least the bed was surprisingly comfortable, for how sparse and how _tiny_ it was. Even with your smaller frame, there wasn’t too much room to either side of you, and you ran your palm along the cot’s edge, wondering how _he_ was able to fit.

Though you quickly squashed that thought. He always slept in his pilot’s seat, you replaced, knowing you couldn’t tolerate the knowledge of sleeping in _his_ spot.

Awake fully now, you decided to take this time to continue cleaning the mess that the Child had made, and finish off whatever Mando was unable to before lift-off. Silently, you slunk out of the bunk, grabbing a quick change of clothes and heading to the darkest corner of the cargo hold. A quick glance around solidified that you had just enough privacy to change without an uncomfortable (though, not entirely unwanted) exchange.

You set the clothes on a nearby box, and looked down at your clothes. Your heart stilled, for the briefest of moments, in homesickness as you held the soft fabric of _home_ in your grip. How was Mom doing, you wondered, along with Dad, along with your friends who you watched the first episode of this very show with?

Your breath lodged itself in your throat, tight, high, choking, and you fought back tears as you quickly shucked off the fabrics and replaced them for what you had picked up on Batuu.

The tunic was light, soft, washing you in a flattering, earthy color, bringing out the flush to your cheeks, the warmth to your eyes, the subtle glow of your hair. Its sleeves hung loosely around your wrists. The belt, hung tight around your waist, was both practical and form-flattering, and you latched and unlatched the pouches that lined the stiff leather. The darker hued pants clung to your hips, your legs, accentuated the curvature of your body, ending in a pair of laced, brown boots of matching shade.

You spun, observing yourself, and feeling a complicated rush of emotions at the way you seamlessly blended into this new world, now.

_“You look good.”_

You jumped nearly three feet into the air, whirling around to face Mando, expression shifting from shock to indignation to _worry._ How long was he standing there, watching you?

_“Don’t worry.”_ He mumbled, taking his place to lean against the ladder, hands raised in acquiescence. _“I didn’t see anything. Came down right as you were lacing up your boots.”_

“Well, good.” You said, a little breathless from the whirl of emotions. “I get you’re mysterious and deadly and silent and all, but gods, let a girl know if you’re gonna sneak in.”

He huffed, or chuckled, or just sighed- you couldn’t tell from that distance- beskar clanking gently against the metal of the ladder with the motion. _“Maybe you just need to get your hearing checked.”_

Oh, you bristled a little at that, mood a bit soured from your dream, from the gnawing feeling of anxiety, decidedly _not_ in the mood for playful bantering about boundaries. Your lack of response earned you a stare from Mando, whose hands had dropped down to rest on his belt. The silence that ensued was uncomfortable, at best, downright suffocating at worst.

You broke first, gaze shifting from the dark “T” of his visor, settling on fixating on the floor in front of you, hands cradling each opposite elbow, arms drawn protectively against you.

The Mandalorian righted himself at that, swiftly, shoulders stiff, one hand half-raised towards you. He seemed almost unsure how to approach, if he even _should,_ his whole body screaming with tension.

You didn’t move and neither did he.

_“Hey.”_ He tried, glued to his spot, though his helmet was trained on you, not moving. _“Are- are you okay?”_

Comfort clearly wasn’t his strong suit, and you burst into a pathetic mixture of bubbling tears and wet laughter, floodgates thoroughly destroyed, fat tears rolling down your cheeks. Whatever emotion you were feeling was something he was familiar with, but inexperienced in handling in a careful and _not-carbonite-freezing_ - _not-murdery_ manner, and Mando just stared as you broke.

He was used to responding to tears with aggression, to punch or kill things to protect- but he was lost, here.

“Just-“ You started, oblivious to the way he stood even straighter at that, body angling towards you. “Just in a funk.”

It was a lame response to his obvious upset, though you tried to offer him a weak smile. It was pitiful, how badly you missed your home, even though you had wanted so badly to _leave_ it, and just how badly a simple _dream_ had you wrecked like this. You pondered, briefly, why you had felt this way, when you were living the way you dreamt about, in the world of your dreams, with the _man_ of your dreams.

Maybe, you were just tired, still. Tired of the absolute drama living in this reality had brought you, tired of the overwhelming amount of stimulus, of culture shock after culture shock. Regardless, you felt weak, crumpled from the inside out.

You sniffled, grinding the heel of your hand into one eye, quelling the tears. The Mandalorian took one step forward, then another following a short pause, footsteps whispering towards you, metal softly murmuring with his movement. He approached like he was approaching a spooked animal, hands raised, breathing stilled, and you couldn’t help but laugh, genuinely, at his valiant attempt.

“You look ridiculous, Mando.” You murmured, voice broken, but warm. “Though, thank you for making _some_ sound this time. Even if I knew you were already here.”

He paused. Straightening up, he closed the rest of the gap with ease, motions fluid and comfortable once more at the break in your poisoned mood, relief almost palpable. Once you were in arm’s reach, he settled his hands on your upper arms, squeezing gently, hands trembling near-imperceptibly under his gloves. They slid down, to your hands, and pried them from your elbows with great tenderness, allowing your fingers to fall naturally interlaced with his.

A soft gasp left you, eyes wide as you stared up at the helmet that was tilted _away_ from you, fixed on the wall adjacent to your bodies.

_“I mean the things I say, uj’alayi.”_ He muttered, ignoring your quip, turning his head towards you again. That simple action, that simple _word,_ sent your heart tumbling into heat, and though your pulse quickened too-fast-too-abrupt, you felt _comfort. “Don’t hide from me.”_

Your face blossomed into a deep blush, throat gone tight and dry for a much different reason, now. How does even the most mundane of actions of his so effortlessly and simultaneously soothe and excite you?

The pads of his fingertips gently nudged the top of your hand, as if to encourage you to speak.

“I-“

Your voice cracked.

“I’ve just been feeling homesick.” You admitted, finally, voice shy of being soundless. “It’s stupid, I shouldn’t cry over it, I mean life wasn’t the best for me, as ungrateful as that sounds and-“

One hand unlaced itself from yours, gripping your chin firmly.

_“It’s not stupid to miss home. I miss my home, too.”_

Your eyes snapped up to his face, words dying in your throat, anxiety quelling at his soft admission that he _felt the same._ You couldn’t see his face, his expression, but his heavy grip in yours, the way his shoulders lowered just a touch, the way his gaze never left yours told you more than you ever thought you could know from such small, subtle changes.

And like the evening ocean waves, low and gentle, calm washed over you, pacifying the rolling rage of anxiety that had threatened to consume you just moments prior. Here stood this man, seemingly indestructible, impervious, _strong_ , lain vulnerable to _you_ , someone who cried fat, ugly tears like a child for missing home, someone he knew for barely three days. Your lips parted, the air punched from your lungs.

You couldn’t stop yourself from hugging him.

You were also very, _very_ lucky you didn’t get a horrible reaction back.

The Mandalorian stiffened at the onslaught of _you,_ every fiber of his being warring between _fight_ and _gentle_. He desperately stood still, a quiet buzz of static bursting through the air as he grunted in surprise at your sudden action, though…

Where he could feel you _,_ it felt so _soft._

Your arms barely reached around him fully, past the hardness of his beskar, hands rooting themselves into the divets in between the armor where you could grasp flesh. Your cheek was smushed so helplessly against his cuirass, eyes squeezed shut, brows knitted so tightly together that the Mandalorian was genuinely concerned if you were in _pain_. Really, though, you were bracing for impact, bracing for a bad reaction, and most importantly, just trying to hold him as close as you could, to revel in your shared feelings, to comfort him as he had you.

Arms enveloped you, after a beat, hesitantly and awkwardly, one hand moving to cradle the back of your neck like you’ve seen him cradle the Child. _Protective._ You melted.

Eyes fluttering open, you first observed your breath fanning along his beskar chest plate, willing your heart to stop pounding. The Mandalorian gave you a little squeeze, as if to test if you were really there, to test your _give,_ and you could hear his short breath from your place under his chin.

“Sorry.” You whispered, though that earned you a pinch to your shoulder.

_“No need.”_ He whispered back, drawing away from you after a moment. Your heart sank, every atom in your body screaming at the loss of contact. Gods, if you could spend every second of your life like that, then really, you thought maybe it would all end up okay.

You silently mourned the loss, though it must have been obvious by the look on your face. Mando laughed softly, raspy, chucking you gently under the chin.

_“No need for that, either.”_ He admonished playfully, _“Not the last time. Now come.”_

That heat, of course, was back, to absolutely no one’s surprise. All you could do was nod helplessly, and follow his retreating form up to the cockpit, taking your place in the passenger’s seat with your knees drawn up to your chest. The ship was still in hyperspace, stars a blurred streak outside of the windshield, light flowing through the cockpit like the streetlamps you would watch as a child in the backseat.

Mando was back in his seat again, and you stared unabashedly in admiration as he flicked some switches (you had to suppress a sigh), hands wrapping around the control sticks with such ease and experience.

_“We’ll be dropping out of hyperspace soon.”_ He stated, tone brooking mild warning. _“This next planet is dangerous. You stay here with the Kid.”_

Goosebumps erupted down your arms and you rubbed them briskly to soothe them.

“How dangerous?” You breathed.

_“You’ll be okay as long as you stay here. Engage ground safety protocols and nothing will get in. There’s enough food and water to last a good three cycles for both you and the Kid.”_ He replied, tone softening, turning his head towards you.

“No,” You said, quickly. “How dangerous is it for _you?”_

His helmet snapped back to the window at that in tense silence. How dangerous was it if he was dodging you? Was he so worried for his own safety? Is that why he wasn’t giving you a straight answer, laced with his usual confident air?

“Mando?”

You pried gently, leaning forward in your seat, fingers reaching out to his. He startled you, though, a quiet chuckle breaking through the tension. The Mandalorian turned to face you, arms crossed in front of him.

_“You caught me off-guard. Not used to people asking if I’ll be okay.”_

You stared at him, unappeased by his response.

_“I’ll be okay.”_ He finally acquiesced, arms wide and palms upturned in defeat, his whole posture _exuding_ confidence, expertise, _calm._ Your eyes flickered down to his lap, the stars of hyperspace glinting off his beskar. Gods, you wanted to sit on it, hug him, be _near_ him again-

And as if the universe wanted the same, the two of you dropped out of hyperspace at that exact moment, with a stomach-curdling lurch of momentum and force that you were positive you would _never_ get used to. And with that gut-wrenching nausea, you went flying, already leaned so forward in your seat you were top-heavy, crashing into something familiarly _metal-wall-y_.

The Mandalorian only bumped his helmet back against his seat, not even grunting this time as you very bodily, and very forcefully, ended up in his lap.

You gasped, a high and shrill sound, cheeks flushing with enough embarrassment to power a thousand fucking planets, face the closest you’ve ever been to his helmet. You were already on your way to a million more apologies, when the ship jolted with the perilous turbulence of an unmanned flight.

Wordlessly, Mando reached behind him- without moving you, or moving his seat- and flicked the switch to kill the engine.

The ship fell into darkness. Your eyes struggled to adjust to the pitch black surrounding you- no planets or suns or even _stars_ to even offer the barest hint of light. Your hands flew out, smashing against the seat, along his shoulders, trying to map out your location and how to get _up._

“Mando?” You whispered, freezing, eyes squinting desperately at the sound of an unfamiliar hiss. “Mando, what was that? I can’t see-”

You felt skin- you felt _skin_ against your cheek. Fingers, hardened from use, gently skirted down the side of your jaw and you stilled, breath once more caught in your throat. It took every bit of self-control to _not ask_ , to not ruin this moment, to not push him back into his gloves, to his comfort zone. His confidence picked back up at your lack of questioning, hands exploring your cheeks, your neck, your arms hungrily.

“Don’t be scared, _uj’alayi._ ” He whispered, and you swore you just went _breathless,_ trembling wildly as you sat perched in his lap. His helmet-

You gulped.

“Please let me touch you- I- I want to kiss you.” He murmured, voice unfiltered, raw, dusky, _deep,_ and you stuttered in a pathetic whiff of air, just enough to reply with a fervent nod and a woeful _please,_ though you should have taken in _more_ with how quick his mouth was on you.

His kiss was possibly the closest to heaven you’d get, warm, slotting perfectly with yours, tongue brushing perfectly against yours. Your cheeks skimmed his- smooth on stubble, just for a moment. Mando’s hands carded through your hair, gentler than ever, drawing you close like he was _desperate_ for it, desperate for _you,_ and you whined, a soft, keening, high sound in your chest.

“ _Shhh,_ ,” He soothed, hand sliding down between your shoulder blades to rest along the sweaty small of your back. “Quiet. Don’t wake the Kid.”

Oh, the Child. He had been resting deeply after you had lain him down earlier that day that you nearly had forgotten. Still getting used to caring for a kid, you supposed, and you swallowed thickly, nodding to Mando despite the darkness.

“Sorry.” You murmured, breath coming in quiet, ragged puffs, fists balled against his cuirass. The Mandalorian stroked the dip just under your spine and you exhaled sharply to offset the whimper that threatened to escape you, worrying your lip between your teeth. His mouth was on yours again, that exploratory hand pushing you by your hips to press flush against his torso, dipping just under your tunic to rest _fully._

“So _soft…”_ He groaned, reverently, voice the barest hint of a whisper, yet _so clear._

Stars, you nearly moaned at that, his warm skin setting a fire on yours, just the simple act of him laying his bare hand on your bare skin enough to shove you closer to the edge. It made your head spin to think you could _cum_ just from making out, just from a little touch _._ But it was addictive, the way his palms kept gliding here and there, from your hipbones to your back to your hipbones _again_ , and you swore you would really be absolutely and utterly _destroyed_ , just from that.

Mando moaned, softly, into your mouth as he squeezed you against him, fingertips digging into your soft flesh, gripping tight like he was afraid you’d disappear, that he’d wake up alone and confined in his self-imposed morals. His thigh jutted in between your legs, meant to stabilize you from his force, but instead, it pressed _just right_ and you burrowed your face into his neck to force yourself to _stay fucking quiet._

And gods, you were so, _so_ close to riding his thigh like this, to just knock yourself right over that edge, to chase after release, but Mando pulled his leg away at the sound of rustling from behind you, panting softly as he trailed fingers up your spine.

You were sure he’d say something about the expression you were hiding in his neck, if he could see it.

“I-“ He started, hands retreating from your shirt. “I don’t want to wake him.”

Ever the father, he was.

“Of course,” You said, desperately hiding the want, the need, and the disappointment in your tone. “He needs the rest, little thing.”

Mando grunted at that, thumb finding its way back to your chin again. You felt a rush of peace at the feeling, and you leaned into it, until your forehead rested against his and your chin bore down heavily into his hand. His lips found yours, a brief kiss, and suddenly that unfamiliar hiss was back again, along with the chill of metal against your skin.

A flick of a switch, and the lights were back on, illuminated harshly into your eyes, forcing you to squint and wince. Mando didn’t exactly evict you from his lap, but you felt as if your time there was over. You slid back into the passenger’s seat, after checking on the Child in the carriage, biting your kiss-bruised lip.

_“I liked that.”_ He murmured, his modulated voice oddly easing you with its familiarity. The Mandalorian turned his helmet just a smidge towards you, attention momentarily on you and not on navigating. _“Another time.”_

You blushed, nodding short and quick, smiling.

“Me too, and _please_.”

All he did was chuckle and return his gaze to the landscape in front of him, guiding the two of you to your destination, falling silent in concentration. You drew your knees up to your chest, resting your chin on them, and just watched as debris and darkness flew past you.

And all you could feel was hope that that _another time_ would be soon.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> uh oh spaghetti-os how about we listen to our good ol boy mando
> 
> kind of a short chapter without a whole lot of interaction but next chapter will be up soon and it will be Spicy

The Kid was up, now.

And boy, was he energetic _._ Apparently, all that sleep wasn’t just for show, and kind of _desperately,_ you tumbled after the naked boy in the _Razor Crest’s_ various decks, the tot _just_ out of reach every time you got remotely close to grabbing his fuzzy, little behind. If not for his incredible agility (for a freakin’ _child!_ ) to dodge you, then the ship would veer _just_ enough to the side, Mando unaware at the helm, and _you’d_ go flying, still unused to the turmoils of space-flight.

And at the unexpected yelp you barked at the violent shake of the _Razor Crest’s_ landing, you heard, distantly, another eruption of tiny laughter somewhere _below._ Immediately, you jumped down the ladder into the main cargo hold, following the sound of his insistent giggling.

He was having fun. You?

Well, you felt well over your head in inexperience, remarkably out of breath from this nonconsensual game of tag, frustration bubbling just beneath the surface. He was _naked,_ for the love of the stars, and all you wanted to do was put him into a fresh tunic, fresh trousers. The Child had other ideas, apparently, giggles bouncing off the metal walls as he had expertly dodged you through familiar cargo boxes, cleverly hiding his impossibly tiny form in nooks and crannies that you, unobservant and exhausted, would skip over.

“C’mon, kid, _please,_ ” You huffed, voice high with weariness as you lowered yourself onto your hands and knees, peering below the Mandalorian’s weapons cabinet. “Mando’s gonna be so mad at me if you get sick.”

You hardly heard the Mandalorian’s entrance, even despite the purposeful _clank_ of his gauntlets and boots against the ladder, mindful of your request prior, or even despite his sharp _inhale_ at the sight of your current position. Mando cleared his throat, turning his head away from your compromised stance, leaning against the ladder heavily.

Too bad your full attentions were drawn elsewhere to correct yourself- attention on balancing the tiny clothes on your shoulder, on keeping your hair from your eyes, on _searching_ under the damn boxes and cabinets for the elusive womp-rat. One hand reached in between the weapon’s cabinet and a carbonite chamber-slab (which you blatantly ignored if it was _occupied_ or not), and gasped with triumph when you nabbed the Kid, smiled stretching across your tired lips.

“Got you!” You shouted, laughing with both relief and because the Kid was _cute_ and laughing too, quickly pulling on his clothes and pinching his little cheeks once his head poked out from the shirt hole.

You heard the deep rumbling of laughter behind you, and you jumped.

_“He’s not going to get sick now.”_ The Mandalorian murmured, breezy and warm, as you turned with a face red to your ears, the Child squirming in your arms with a joyful squeal. Stars, you couldn’t make eye contact with him for more than a nanosecond after your encounter hours prior, and he took notice, straightening out, hands by his side.

_“Are you okay? You look flush.”_ He asked, marching over to where you and the Kid sat on the floor, crouching, removing one calloused hand from his glove to press against your forehead. A soft gasp fell from your lips at just how _easily_ he touched you now, skin to skin, and you jerked back like you were burnt, heart hammering as the memories of his hands roaming your skin, of his lips against yours came flooding back- too much to handle while you were with _his_ child.

Mando stiffened, ever perceptive, hand dropping in front of him as he whispered your name. You chanced a glance up at him, breath catching high in your throat as your eyes settled on the dark cross of his visor, _knowing_ what was under there by touch, but not by sight. His bare hand reached out to brush your chin, thumb nestling comfortably against the curve of your jaw, and you swore you heard an equally tense sigh from him, too soft for his modulator to catch.

_“I...”_ He started, hand leaving your jaw and visor leaving your eyes to tickle the Child’s chin. _“I didn’t go too far, right?”_

The air left your lungs entirely, eyes wide as you stared at the shiny curve of his helmet in disbelief.

All you could do was whisper _no_ , _never._ His helmet snapped back up, as if disbelieving, and you broke into soft laughter, eyes never leaving his visor. You noted the near-imperceptible way his shoulders melted, heaving in a soundless sigh, and gods, you felt _alright_ with everything again, like the days of turmoil left _you_ in that gentle fall of his chest.

You wanted to rest your head on his chest, hear his heart, feel _him._ You wanted to kiss him again.

_“I still have a job to do, today.”_ Mando said, getting up after a few beats, avoiding your aching stare as he gently nudged you and the Child from the front of his weapons cabinet. His tone lost the warmth reserved for the Child and _you,_ though his words stayed rounded and mild, the soft gruffness that somehow struck _fear_ in those he spoke with. It was time for business, and you nodded, fighting the pout of a moment lost.

_“What did I tell you about protocol?”_

He turned to you, strapping a rifle to his back, replenishing his thermal detonators on his hip, eyes never leaving yours. Or at least that’s what it had _felt_ like.

“Ground safety protocol.” You repeated, standing from your position on the floor with his forgotten glove in your free hand, gracing him with a smile so gentle he paused, just for a moment. “Enough food and water for three cycles.”

You noted his pause, wanting to reach out to interlace your fingers with his in that brief moment you had disarmed him so completely, but he was moving again, head no longer in the space for affection. The Child balanced on your hip, you followed him to the edge of the cargo hold, where he had been doing a final check on supplies.

“Mando,” You said, holding up the glove, “I think you’re forgetting something.”

His attentions were on you again, and this time you were _certain_ you heard a sharp exhale, undetected by his vocoder but sought after by your focused ears. The Mandalorian made his way over to you, slow, his gloved hand cupping your cheek with a tenderness that was near _lethal_ , thumb tracing the bone, his bare hand plucking the glove from yours, fingers brushing against yours.

_“Thank you, uj’alayi.”_ He whispered, and you swore you were melting, or dead, heart still in your very throat as you nodded again, stupidly. _“Don’t open this door for_ anything. _You hear?”_

All you could do was nod again, and appeased, the Mandalorian withdrew after giving similar affections to the Child, opening the ramp to a _freezing_ breeze and a snowstorm. A gasp tore itself from you, loudly, and he turned in shock, to ensure you and the Kid’s safety _one last time_ before he left. You trembled, shielding the baby from the ice-cold whip of air, nestling him in your tunic with your free arm raised to shield your eyes, staring slack-jawed and squinted at the frozen landscape before you.

“Are you really going to be okay, Mando?” You said, just loud enough to hear over the intensity of the storm outside, voice shaking as hard as your body was, not just from the chill of the world outside of the ship seeping deep into your bones. Stars, you weren’t even _outside_ but the planet was already trying to kill you.

_“I’ll be fine.”_ He replied, coolly, _“I’ll be back in two days. Don’t forget the protocol.”_

And with that he was gone, the snap of the ramp sealing shut. Hurriedly, you and the Child returned to the cockpit, flipping the switches in the exact order Mando had taught you the night before. A thrill shot through you as you mimicked his actions, in _his_ seat, but you couldn’t help but sigh- without relief- once you saw the transparent glitter of the shields engulf the ship, even the pelting hail unable to penetrate its barrier.

Nothing was getting in.

You tried not to worry about him.

The Child murmured next to you, and you turned to face him, heaving a deep sigh, tickling the baby’s chin fondly.

“Just you and me for now, buddy. Let’s find some stuff to do.”

It had been more than two days, and you were certain the Mandalorian was a man of his word. With each passing second, worry gnawed at your insides, no amount of games, no amount of coloring, or magic hand things able to distract you from the anxiety that was overtaking you. Every creak of the ship jolted you, hoping it was him, hoping he was _safe_ and just late, but it never was. Mando hadn’t even set up a commlink, for fuck’s sake, so used to working alone, so there was nothing to _check in_ with, no confirmation he wasn’t dead in a ditch, somewhere.

You couldn’t just sit there.

But you couldn’t just leave the baby again.

It seems you didn’t have to war with yourself for very long, because the ship creaked with the indignation of being _hit_ with blasters- many of them- the synthetic sounds of lasers firing muffled, but still audible, along with the war cries unfamiliar to you. Pounding footsteps ran up the outer ramp, the door still sealed shut, and your skin broke out into a sickeningly _cold_ sweat at the realization that _he_ was out there, out there outnumbered and _alone._

You moved faster than you ever thought possible. Seeking safety for the Child, you stowed him away in his bassinet above, sealing the protective pod to ensure the baby wouldn’t attempt to sneak out. For once, he didn’t protest. You whispered a soft _thank you,_ whipping around to face the complicated console in front of you.

You could do it again; you could remember the switches, the buttons to press.

Gods, _fast_ \- you wanted to move _faster_ to get to him, to protect the bounty hunter, and your fingers desperately flipped the switches in perfect order once more, disengaging the safety protocol he had so gently demanded you raise. You wouldn’t let him die as an expense to your temporary safety. The shields dematerialized, though you didn’t stick around long enough to see them fade in an opal glimmer.

You hoped you were fast enough, for once in your fucking life, and you leapt down the ladder, over cargo boxes, slamming your hand on the button to release the ramp. It shuddered, then ever so slowly unveiled itself, lowering in the most _painful_ minute of your life.

“Please,” You gasped, willing the fucking ramp to open _quicker._ The sounds of blasters didn’t stop, and you felt one graze your shoulder- thankfully only tearing your shirt- as your vulnerable form was revealed. Without a sound, you bit your tongue and ran forward, pressing yourself against a pillar for cover amidst the onslaught, adrenaline rushing through you, blooding rushing in your ears. Your eyes desperately washed over the deck, searching.

He wasn’t there, anymore.

Anxiety colder than the air settled low in your gut, and you drew your blaster from the holster, other arm raised to shield you from the snap of the cold wind whipping around you. Blasters continued to fire at you, now that their main target wasn’t there, and you gasped helplessly as you fired back, blindly, maintaining as much cover as you could.

You probably weren’t hitting any of them, but little by little, the sounds of their commotion, their language, their _fire_ slowed, until you heard nothing but the howls of the endless storm around you. Carefully, you stepped away from cover, down the ramp, searching in the snow for your companion, for any sign of _him,_ willing yourself not to cry when you only found snow.

“Mando!” You yelled, voice utterly engulfed, eyes darting as you ventured a few steps from the ramp, into the white abyss of sleet and _certain death._ Your temperature was rapidly dropping, shaking you from your core, but you had to find him- you _had_ to.

He was all you had left. You couldn’t do this alone.

You tried his name again, voice gone thin from the screaming, from your very vocal cords starting to freeze over, and you turned to return, only to find you didn’t know which way the ship was, your world surrounded by an empty white.

Oh _fuck._

You were going to _die_ out here.

Instinct consumed you, thoughts rotating on a single track of _survival_ , and despite your frozen limbs, you pushed forward, desperately, breath coming in high wheezes. You felt your foot hit something hard, something metallic, catching you unawares and you crumpled, weak and exhausted, at your limit. The cold sapped at your energy, sucking every bit of life from you, immobilizing you where you lay, and you huffed an impossible breath, still.

You wanted to see him, again.

You hoped he was alive. You hoped you at least helped him get inside.

You worried about the Kid, what it meant for him if you both were gone.

As your world turned grey to inky black, you swore you heard the soft whisper of your name, familiar fingers intertwined with yours.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> literally just smut and *~feelings~* i literally dont know where im going with this story anymore!!! thank you for all of your continued support i love you!
> 
> also please use protection, reader and mando are stupid

Consciousness seeped back, sluggishly.

You heard a low hum of an engine, the gentle, consistent rocking that you were now familiar with and soothed you- the rocking of _hyperspace._ Your body felt warm, small frame perched up against something firm and enveloping that gave to your incessant nuzzling, and you were wrapped in something soft- softer than you’ve ever felt; And, oh, gods, whatever it was smelled nice, like musk and leather and _earth and home._

Was this heaven?

Instinctively, you nestled your face closer, seeking out the warmth to soak your frozen cheek- and you were met with a gasp, staticky and harsh. You didn’t open your eyes, sleepy, his sharp inhale echoing dimly in your foggy mind.

_“Uj’alayi.”_ You heard, feeling a rough, open palm swipe up the length of your spine, delicately skimming your skin as if he’d break you. You curled into it, curled into _him,_ and yeah, this _was_ heaven you decided, that you were okay with death if it meant it was this, as you settled your body neatly into his. He was so _warm,_ so solid, yet soft, skin surprisingly smooth-

_Skin._

Your eyes snapped open.

You heard a relieved sigh escape _him,_ and gods you nearly cried from seeing that he was okay, but first you blustered, staring in shock at his naked chest, then _yours._ Blood rushed to your head, to your thighs, warring over who gets the right to respond first, and you stammered, thoroughly destroyed by the situation you had found yourself in. Were you really dead?

Mando tried your name again, fingers drawing the blanket to a close, shielding your nude form from his eyes, shifting in the tight space of the closed bunk.

_“I’m sorry.”_ He started, tilting his helmet from you. _“I found you outside. You were nearly dead from the cold. Skin-to-skin is the fastest way to warm someone up.”_

He almost sounded _ashamed_ , and it punched the very oxygen from your lungs, which he absolutely took the wrong way, hands leaving your naked form.

_“I understand if you’re angry. I just couldn’t let you die.”_

“Angry?” You quickly replied, voice softer than a whisper, cupping the cheek of his helmet to tilt it back towards you, forcing him to witness your desire, your _relief_ that he was unharmed and by your side once more. “I could never be angry. Not with you.”

Naked now, you could see the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed, see the way his skin lit up in goosebumps at the brush of your breasts against him, at your pinky brushing briefly- accidentally- against his jawline. His hands were on you again, so large and warm, gripping your hipbones tight as he drew you near, desperate for _more_ touch, for more contact, for affection.

_“I’m glad.”_ He whispered, palms skating up your sides, then down again, unabashed. Each stroke ignited the spark in you, goosebumps following his palms like sheep to the slaughter and _oh,_ you leaned in closer to him, tucking your head underneath his helmet and tracing your own fingertips along his chest. You watched as his skin betrayed his stoicism, tanned skin turning flushed and prickled with gooseflesh where your touch grazed him, a mirror reaction to your own response, and you stuttered for a breath, lost in your shared affection, shared _need._

You were well past _warmed_ now, though neither of your moved to break apart, gentle touches slowly evolving into heavier pawing, nails scratching, fingers _squeezing_ , the humid air of the enclosed space filled with the dual whispers of moans from the two of you. In his lap, you pressed yourself to him, a phantom memory of your kiss days prior, wedging his naked thigh in between your equally naked ones. Forehead resting against the curve of his helmet, you whimpered, and he graciously shifted his knee until delicious pressure blossomed pleasure through your hips, coaxing your whimpers into soft moans.

“I was so worried about you,” You admitted, breathless, looking into the darkness of his visor, wishing you could see just how wrecked you were making him, too. “You said two days.”

_“I know,”_ He started, motions stilling. _“I’m sorry. I was worried about you, too, when I saw the ramp open. You almost_ died _.”_

You huffed, a wet sound as his emotion choked you, and your head spun- was this really a man you knew for a little over a week? How could the two of you, total strangers, become inseparable, become so _needing_ of each other, for each other, in such a short span of time? You caught a sharp hitch of his breath, his hand tucking a lock of your hair behind your ear, stroking down the line of your jaw.

“I couldn’t just lock you out there.” You murmured, leaning into his touch, watching as goosebumps skittered down his arm. “Without you, I have no pilot, you know.”

That earned you a soft laugh and a pinch to your cheek, and you were laughing too, hushed like you were holding a secret, like the two of you were trying to hide your shared souls and bleeding hearts from the world. Mando leaned closer, hand on your waist, stilling once he was just mere centimeters from your nose.

_“I… I don’t know why I feel this way. About you.”_ He whispered, voice quiet with a vulnerability he was not used to. _“You weren’t afraid of me- anxious maybe, curious, but not_ afraid _. Most are.”_

You could hear his breath, you could _see_ it, see the way his chest rose and fell, tanned flesh glowing in the dim, yellow light of the bunk. Every breath you watched stole the air from your lungs in, still and smothered with an emotion neither of you were ready to face, yet.

_“I felt the same. I want to protect you. Not like I do with the Kid. I want to protect_ you _. I want_ you. _”_

You gasped, heart hammering hard enough you were absolutely certain he could _hear_ it, and the only thing you could whisper was a choked _I’m yours,_ eyes never leaving his helmet. And like the floodgates opened, he was on you, hands roaming the soft planes of your body like worship, gentle but firm, nudging to lay spread below him, below his bulk, the blanket falling away from the both of you.

Mando’s hand slammed against the paneling, and you were engulfed in darkness again, the hiss of his helmet punctuating the air and his _mouth_ was on you in a flash, slotting perfectly against yours again, nerves alight as your vision faded, acutely aware of _every_ gentle touch as your senses tried desperately to compensate. And you moaned in return, arms wrapping around his bare shoulders as you melted against him, melted into the kiss, feeling the heat pool between your thighs in a wet, slippery mess.

He pulled back, panting, and you bit your lip, one hand skirting up the length of his thick forearm.

“I’m sorry.” He breathed, and your arousal flickered helplessly at his unfiltered voice, raw and rounded and coarse.

You knew why he apologized.

“It’s okay,” You reassured him, hand against his bare, damp cheek, thumb tracing across his cheek, his nose, his brow, earning you a quiet moan. “I’m happy to just be with you.”

Mando moaned, again, though out of a relief to find someone who didn’t _push_ him, didn’t ask for more than he could offer, and he whispered a reverent _thank you_ before he was on your neck, kissing a smattering of nips and sloppy pecks down the curves of your torso, over your rounded breasts, along your hipbone. His fingers skated along your inner thighs as he sucked a deep bruise into the arch of your hip, marking you as _his,_ though no one would see it, and he persisted as if he were giving _you_ a secret to hide to match eternal one.

Your breath hitched.

Just a moment later and _Maker,_ his mouth was on your sex, and it felt like everything you had expected heaven to be, with his plush lips against your folds, stubble brushing against your thighs in rough jolts of _pleasure_. You keened, thighs spreading wider for him despite the tiny bunk, and you felt his jaw work as he lapped at you, tongue flat against your clit and _oh-_

“Mando-“ You gasped, voice higher than you’ve ever heard it, and he growled in response, focusing on your taste, the way you felt on his tongue, so unused to indulging in oral pleasures. The Mandalorian took his time with you, sucking every hitched moan and cry from you, the sloppy, wet sounds of his workings echoing in the room. One more, long drag of his tongue across your clit, and you were coming undone, shaking and tugging at his curly, soft hair as you came on his face, toes curled.

Fuck, your very nerves were connected to his mouth, and every lazy swipe of it post-orgasm sent a fire searing through you, until it was just _too_ much and you were squirming away. Mando chuckled, a low, ragged sound, and he sounded just as wrecked as you felt, palms sweaty on your thighs.

“I could listen to you moan forever.” He said, fingers brushing against your sensitive cunt, capturing the moisture of his spit and your slick. “I could do _this_ forever-“

His finger dipped into you, lips spilling praise, and you _vibrated_ with the need to be filled, to be so thoroughly fucked out by him, refractory period be damned. Mando moaned along with you, his own nerves alight and sensitive from their lack of exposure, and in a rare show of impatience, he slid another finger deep into you, crooking _just_ right, the heel of his palm bearing down heavily against your clit.

Stars blossomed behind your eyes, like the first time the bright wash of hyperspace illuminated your vision, and you _shook,_ breaking apart under him, breaking apart _for_ him.

“Come for me, _uj’alayi._ ” He moaned as you did, and for once he cursed the Creed for robbing him of _seeing_ you, seeing the way your nipples pebbled with your orgasm, seeing your face as you came for him, seeing your pussy bear down tight around his fingers. 

“Please, Mando,” You begged, desperate and wet and _broken._ The Mandalorian leaned down, littering your face with gentle kisses to soothe you, clean hand smoothing down the sweaty hairs along your brow.

Even without his sight, he knew you were beautiful. He’s studied your face enough, without you knowing, to know exactly where your nose would be, where your lips would be, how your face would look when your voice hit such a vulnerable tone. Mando’s studied your frame, so small compared to his, so soft and full of rounded peaks and gentle dips, knows where your legs meet your hips in that lethal divot and he positioned himself in between them, cock hard and leaking.

You both wished you could have seen it.

“You’re so good for me,” He praised, hands skimming up the sides of your thighs to grip your hips, lifting just a touch to match the height of his. “Tell me if it’s too much.”

“Never too much,” You whimpered, basking in his quiet groans, body fluidly moving the way he wanted it to, molding just _right_ for him. Mando leaned forward to kiss you, breath stuttering with arousal and emotion, one hand cupping the curve of your cheek in that way that always settled you, that felt right.

He was pushing in, then, and _oh,_ you whined as he breached you, stretched you further than you thought was possible, filling your cunt so _perfectly_ you couldn’t help but gasp and cry into his mouth. You felt utterly annihilated once his hips met yours, feeling the way he was seated so deeply inside you, and gods, you really were worried you’d be walking funny all day tomorrow.

“Fuck-“ He spat, reaching to draw you into his arms, holding you close as he began to rock, testing your give, testing how your pussy _yielded_ to him. “ _Uj’alayi._ You feel so good- My good girl, so _tight_ for me-“

His praise sent shivers down your spine, and you moaned helplessly into his shoulder, fingers digging into his back, yearning to feel the way his skin warmed with your connection. And, like you just spurred him, he was _fucking_ into you, cheek pressed to your temple as he held you immobile and close, ragged breath punctuating each roll of his hips as he took you. Pleasure streamlined through every vein, overtaking every thought, and you _screamed_ , uncaring of who heard, uncaring of the consequences, only wanting to feel more, feel him pound into you and claim you.

And _fuck,_ when his hips hit your clit, you gasped, thoroughly breathless now, feeling the way your third orgasm built just under the surface, every deep stroke, every brush of his palms coaxing it further and further out. Mando leaned in to kiss you, sharing your breathlessness, praising you, begging for you to come on his cock, and you could only obey, writhing and gasping for air as you clenched impossibly tight around him.

He moaned, voice caught around the syllables of your name, and several, erratic thrusts later he was spilling into you, fighting for breath the way you had, hips stilling flush against yours. He propped himself up above you on his forearms, littering your face with venerated kisses, palms cupping your cheeks with a so much care that you felt your heart split unevenly into a billion, tiny pieces.

You laughed, softly, quickly capturing his cheek in a kiss. He shifted, spilling out from you with a murmur, drawing you close to him as he laid down beside you, hunched in the tight space. Mando tipped your chin up, not fumbling once to find it, lips upon yours again like he needed more.

“Thank you.” He whispered, and you felt the curve of his lips brush against yours as he spoke, tickling and flittering and plush. The words carried more weight than just a lover grateful for touch, carried the weight of decades of self-imposed chastity, of isolation finally broken, of gratitude at your _care._ A hand carded through your hair, and you mimicked his actions, toying with the impossibly soft strands, trying to make out a texture.

“No need.” You whispered back, smiling, cheeks still warmed, aching body soothed by his touch. “I like you, Mando.”

He froze, then abruptly chuckled, the rough edges of his voice rubbing brusquely against your frayed heartstrings. It was childish, admitting your burgeoning feelings like you did your 7th grade crush, but the warm way he laughed, the way he drew you flush to him, made it feel right and _welcome._

“I like you, too.”

And his fingers slid into yours, squeezing tight, and yeah, it _was_ right.


End file.
